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Title: The Unseen World, and Other Essays

Author: John Fiske

Release date: October 1, 1998 [eBook #1486]
Most recently updated: February 2, 2013

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNSEEN
WORLD, AND OTHER ESSAYS ***

THE UNSEEN WORLD AND
OTHER ESSAYS

By John Fiske

Transcriber's Note: This reviews Draper's Science and Religion
and contrasts two Dante translations.

TO
JAMES SIME.

MY DEAR SIME:

Life has now and then some supreme moments of pure happiness,
which in reminiscence give to single days the value of months
or years. Two or three such moments it has been my good fortune
to enjoy with you, in talking over the mysteries which forever
fascinate while they forever baffle us. It was our midnight talks
in Great Russell Street and the Addison Road, and our bright May
holiday on the Thames, that led me to write this scanty essay on
the "Unseen World," and to whom could I so heartily dedicate it
as to you? I only wish it were more worthy of its origin. As for
the dozen papers which I have appended to it, by way of clearing
out my workshop, I hope you will read them indulgently, and
believe
me

Ever faithfully yours,
JOHN
FISKE.

HARVARD UNIVERSITY, February 3, 1876.

CONTENTS

ESSAYS.

I. THE UNSEEN WORLD.
PART FIRST.
PART SECOND.

II. "THE TO-MORROW OF DEATH."
III. THE JESUS OF HISTORY.
IV. THE CHRIST OF DOGMA.
V. A WORD ABOUT MIRACLES.
VI. DRAPER ON SCIENCE AND RELIGION.
VII. NATHAN THE WISE.
VIII. HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES.
IX. THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL.
X. SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS.
XI. LONGFELLOW'S DANTE.
XII. PAINE'S "ST. PETER."
XIII. A PHILOSOPHY OF ART.
XIV. ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE.

FOOTNOTES

ESSAYS.

I. THE UNSEEN WORLD.

PART FIRST.
"What are you, where did you come from, and whither are you
bound?"—the question which from Homer's days has been put to the
wayfarer in strange lands—is likewise the all-absorbing question which
man is ever asking of the universe of which he is himself so tiny yet so
wondrous a part. From the earliest times the ultimate purpose of all
scientific research has been to elicit fragmentary or partial responses to this
question, and philosophy has ever busied itself in piecing together these
several bits of information according to the best methods at its disposal, in
order to make up something like a satisfactory answer. In old times the best
methods which philosophy had at its disposal for this purpose were such as
now seem very crude, and accordingly ancient philosophers bungled
considerably in their task, though now and then they came surprisingly near
what would to-day be called the truth. It was natural that their methods
should be crude, for scientific inquiry had as yet supplied but scanty
materials for them to work with, and it was only after a very long course of
speculation and criticism that men could find out what ways of going to
work are likely to prove successful and what are not. The earliest thinkers,
indeed, were further hindered from accomplishing much by the
imperfections of the language by the aid of which their thinking was done;
for science and philosophy have had to make a serviceable terminology by
dint of long and arduous trial and practice, and linguistic processes fit for
expressing general or abstract notions accurately grew up only through
numberless failures and at the expense of much inaccurate thinking and
loose talking. As in most of nature's processes, there was a great waste of
energy before a good result could be secured. Accordingly primitive men
were very wide of the mark in their views of nature. To them the world was
a sort of enchanted ground, peopled with sprites and goblins; the quaint
notions with which we now amuse our children in fairy tales represent a
style of thinking which once was current among grown men and women,
and which is still current wherever men remain in a savage condition. The
theories of the world wrought out by early priest-philosophers were in great
part made up of such grotesque notions; and having become variously

implicated with ethical opinions as to the nature and consequences of right
and wrong behaviour, they acquired a kind of sanctity, so that any thinker
who in the light of a wider experience ventured to alter or amend the
primitive theory was likely to be vituperated as an irreligious man or
atheist. This sort of inference has not yet been wholly abandoned, even in
civilized communities. Even to-day books are written about "the conflict
between religion and science," and other books are written with intent to
reconcile the two presumed antagonists. But when we look beneath the
surface of things, we see that in reality there has never been any conflict
between religion and science, nor is any reconciliation called for where
harmony has always existed. The real historical conflict, which has been
thus curiously misnamed, has been the conflict between the more-crude
opinions belonging to the science of an earlier age and the less-crude
opinions belonging to the science of a later age. In the course of this contest
the more-crude opinions have usually been defended in the name of
religion, and the less-crude opinions have invariably won the victory; but
religion itself, which is not concerned with opinion, but with the aspiration
which leads us to strive after a purer and holier life, has seldom or never
been attacked. On the contrary, the scientific men who have conducted the
battle on behalf of the less-crude opinions have generally been influenced
by this religious aspiration quite as strongly as the apologists of the more-
crude opinions, and so far from religious feeling having been weakened by
their perennial series of victories, it has apparently been growing deeper
and stronger all the time. The religious sense is as yet too feebly developed
in most of us; but certainly in no preceding age have men taken up the work
of life with more earnestness or with more real faith in the unseen than at
the present day, when so much of what was once deemed all-important
knowledge has been consigned to the limbo of mythology.
The more-crude theories of early times are to be chiefly distinguished
from the less-crude theories of to-day as being largely the products of
random guesswork. Hypothesis, or guesswork, indeed, lies at the foundation
of all scientific knowledge. The riddle of the universe, like less important
riddles, is unravelled only by approximative trials, and the most brilliant
discoverers have usually been the bravest guessers. Kepler's laws were the
result of indefatigable guessing, and so, in a somewhat different sense, was
the wave-theory of light. But the guesswork of scientific inquirers is very
different now from what it was in older times. In the first place, we have

slowly learned that a guess must be verified before it can be accepted as a
sound theory; and, secondly, so many truths have been established beyond
contravention, that the latitude for hypothesis is much less than it once was.
Nine tenths of the guesses which might have occurred to a mediaeval
philosopher would now be ruled out as inadmissible, because they would
not harmonize with the knowledge which has been acquired since the
Middle Ages. There is one direction especially in which this continuous
limitation of guesswork by ever-accumulating experience has manifested
itself. From first to last, all our speculative successes and failures have
agreed in teaching us that the most general principles of action which
prevail to-day, and in our own corner of the universe, have always prevailed
throughout as much of the universe as is accessible to our research. They
have taught us that for the deciphering of the past and the predicting of the
future, no hypotheses are admissible which are not based upon the actual
behaviour of things in the present. Once there was unlimited facility for
guessing as to how the solar system might have come into existence; now
the origin of the sun and planets is adequately explained when we have
unfolded all that is implied in the processes which are still going on in the
solar system. Formerly appeals were made to all manner of violent agencies
to account for the changes which the earth's surface has undergone since
our planet began its independent career; now it is seen that the same slow
working of rain and tide, of wind and wave and frost, of secular contraction
and of earthquake pulse, which is visible to-day, will account for the whole.
It is not long since it was supposed that a species of animals or plants could
be swept away only by some unusual catastrophe, while for the origination
of new species something called an act of "special creation" was necessary;
and as to the nature of such extraordinary events there was endless room for
guesswork; but the discovery of natural selection was the discovery of a
process, going on perpetually under our very eyes, which must inevitably of
itself extinguish some species and bring new ones into being. In these and
countless other ways we have learned that all the rich variety of nature is
pervaded by unity of action, such as we might expect to find if nature is the
manifestation of an infinite God who is without variableness or shadow of
turning, but quite incompatible with the fitful behaviour of the
anthropomorphic deities of the old mythologies. By thus abstaining from all
appeal to agencies that are extra-cosmic, or not involved in the orderly
system of events that we see occurring around us, we have at last succeeded

in eliminating from philosophic speculation the character of random
guesswork which at first of necessity belonged to it. Modern scientific
hypothesis is so far from being a haphazard mental proceeding that it is
perhaps hardly fair to classify it with guesses. It is lifted out of the plane of
guesswork, in so far as it has acquired the character of inevitable inference
from that which now is to that which has been or will be. Instead of the
innumerable particular assumptions which were once admitted into cosmic
philosophy, we are now reduced to the one universal assumption which has
been variously described as the "principle of continuity," the "uniformity of
nature," the "persistence of force," or the "law of causation," and which has
been variously explained as a necessary datum for scientific thinking or as a
net result of all induction. I am not unwilling, however, to adopt the
language of a book which has furnished the occasion for the present
discussion, and to say that this grand assumption is a supreme act of faith,
the definite expression of a trust that the infinite Sustainer of the universe
"will not put us to permanent intellectual confusion." For in this mode of
statement the harmony between the scientific and the religious points of
view is well brought out. It is as affording the only outlet from permanent
intellectual confusion that inquirers have been driven to appeal to the
principle of continuity; and it is by unswerving reliance upon this principle
that we have obtained such insight into the past, present, and future of the
world as we now possess.
The work just mentioned 1 is especially interesting as an attempt to bring
the probable destiny of the human soul into connection with the modern
theories which explain the past and future career of the physical universe in
accordance with the principle of continuity. Its authorship is as yet
unknown, but it is believed to be the joint production of two of the most
eminent physicists in Great Britain, and certainly the accurate knowledge
and the ingenuity and subtlety of thought displayed in it are such as to lend
great probability to this conjecture. Some account of the argument it
contains may well precede the suggestions presently to be set forth
concerning the Unseen World; and we shall find it most convenient to
begin, like our authors, with a brief statement of what the principle of
continuity teaches as to the proximate beginning and end of the visible
universe. I shall in the main set down only results, having elsewhere 2 given
a simple exposition of the arguments upon which these results are founded.

The first great cosmological speculation which has been raised quite
above the plane of guesswork by making no other assumption than that of
the uniformity of nature, is the well-known Nebular Hypothesis. Every
astronomer knows that the earth, like all other cosmical bodies which are
flattened at the poles, was formerly a mass of fluid, and consequently filled
a much larger space than at present. It is further agreed, on all hands, that
the sun is a contracting body, since there is no other possible way of
accounting for the enormous quantity of heat which he generates. The so-
called primeval nebula follows as a necessary inference from these facts.
There was once a time when the earth was distended on all sides away out
to the moon and beyond it, so that the matter now contained in the moon
was then a part of our equatorial zone. And at a still remoter date in the
past, the mass of the sun was diffused in every direction beyond the orbit of
Neptune, and no planet had an individual existence, for all were
indistinguishable parts of the solar mass. When the great mass of the sun,
increased by the relatively small mass of all the planets put together, was
spread out in this way, it was a rare vapour or gas. At the period where the
question is taken up in Laplace's treatment of the nebular theory, the shape
of this mass is regarded as spheroidal; but at an earlier period its shape may
well have been as irregular as that of any of the nebulae which we now see
in distant parts of the heavens, for, whatever its primitive shape, the
equalization of its rotation would in time make it spheroidal. That the
QUANTITY of rotation was the same then as now is unquestionable; for no
system of particles, great or small, can acquire or lose rotation by any action
going on within itself, any more than a man could pick himself up by his
waistband and lift himself over a stone wale So that the primitive rotating
spheroidal solar nebula is not a matter of assumption, but is just what must
once have existed, provided there has been no breach of continuity in
nature's operations. Now proceeding to reason back from the past to the
present, it has been shown that the abandonment of successive equatorial
belts by the contracting solar mass must have ensued in accordance with
known mechanical laws; and in similar wise, under ordinary circumstances
each belt must have parted into fragments, and the fragments chasing each
other around the same orbit, must have at last coalesced into a spheroidal
planet. Not only this, but it has also been shown that as the result of such a
process the relative sizes of the planets would be likely to take the order
which they now follow; that the ring immediately succeeding that of Jupiter

would be likely to abort and produce a great number of tiny planets instead
of one good-sized one; that the outer planets would be likely to have many
moons, and that Saturn, besides having the greatest number of moons,
would be likely to retain some of his inner rings unbroken; that the earth
would be likely to have a long day and Jupiter a short one; that the extreme
outer planets would be not unlikely to rotate in a retrograde direction; and
so on, through a long list of interesting and striking details. Not only,
therefore, are we driven to the inference that our solar system was once a
vaporous nebula, but we find that the mere contraction of such a nebula,
under the influence of the enormous mutual gravitation of its particles,
carries with it the explanation of both the more general and the more
particular features of the present system. So that we may fairly regard this
stupendous process as veritable matter of history, while we proceed to study
it under some further aspects and to consider what consequences are likely
to follow.
Our attention should first be directed to the enormous waste of energy
which has accompanied this contraction of the solar nebula. The first result
of such a contraction is the generation of a great quantity of heat, and when
the heat thus generated has been lost by radiation into surrounding space it
becomes possible for the contraction to continue. Thus, as concentration
goes on, heat is incessantly generated and incessantly dissipated. How long
this process is to endure depends chiefly on the size of the contracting mass,
as small bodies radiate heat much faster than large ones. The moon seems to
be already thoroughly refrigerated, while Jupiter and Saturn are very much
hotter than the earth, as is shown by the tremendous atmospheric
phenomena which occur on their surfaces. The sun, again, generates heat so
rapidly, owing to his great energy of contraction, and loses it so slowly,
owing to his great size, that his surface is always kept in a state of
incandescence. His surface-temperature is estimated at some three million
degrees of Fahrenheit, and a diminution of his diameter far too small to be
detected by the finest existing instruments would suffice to maintain the
present supply of heat for more than fifty centuries. These facts point to a
very long future during which the sun will continue to warm the earth and
its companion planets, but at the same time they carry on their face the story
of inevitable ultimate doom. If things continue to go on as they have all
along gone on, the sun must by and by grow black and cold, and all life
whatever throughout the solar system must come to an end. Long before

this consummation, however, life will probably have become extinct
through the refrigeration of each of the planets into a state like the present
state of the moon, in which the atmosphere and oceans have disappeared
from the surface. No doubt the sun will continue to give out heat a long
time after heat has ceased to be needed for the support of living organisms.
For the final refrigeration of the sun will long be postponed by the fate of
the planets themselves. The separation of the planets from their parent solar
mass seems to be after all but a temporary separation. So nicely balanced
are they now in their orbits that they may well seem capable of rolling on in
their present courses forever. But this is not the case. Two sets of
circumstances are all the while striving, the one to drive the planets farther
away from the sun, the other to draw them all into it. On the one hand,
every body in our system which contains fluid matter has tides raised upon
its surface by the attraction of neighbouring bodies. All the planets raise
tides upon the surface of the sun and the periodicity of sun-spots (or solar
cyclones) depends upon this fact. These tidal waves act as a drag or brake
upon the rotation of the sun, somewhat diminishing its rapidity. But, in
conformity with a principle of mechanics well known to astronomers,
though not familiar to the general reader, all the motion of rotation thus lost
by the sun is added to the planets in the shape of annual motion of
revolution, and thus their orbits all tend to enlarge,—they all tend to recede
somewhat from the sun. But this state of things, though long-enduring
enough, is after all only temporary, and will at any rate come to an end
when the sun and planets have become solid. Meanwhile another set of
circumstances is all the time tending to bring the planets nearer to the sun,
and in the long run must gain the mastery. The space through which the
planets move is filled with a kind of matter which serves as a medium for
the transmission of heat and light, and this kind of matter, though different
in some respects from ordinary ponderable matter, is yet like it in exerting
friction. This friction is almost infinitely little, yet it has a wellnigh infinite
length of time to work in, and during all this wellnigh infinite length of time
it is slowly eating up the momentum of the planets and diminishing their
ability to maintain their distances from the sun. Hence in course of time the
planets will all fall into the sun, one after another, so that the solar system
will end, as it began, by consisting of a single mass of matter.
But this is by no means the end of the story. When two bodies rush
together, each parts with some of its energy of motion, and this lost energy

of motion reappears as heat. In the concussion of two cosmical bodies, like
the sun and the earth, an enormous quantity of motion is thus converted into
heat. Now heat, when not allowed to radiate, or when generated faster than
it can be radiated, is transformed into motion of expansion. Hence the shock
of sun and planet would at once result in the vaporization of both bodies;
and there can be no doubt that by the time the sun has absorbed the
outermost of his attendant planets, he will have resumed something like his
original nebulous condition. He will have been dilated into a huge mass of
vapour, and will have become fit for a new process of contraction and for a
new production of life-bearing planets.
We are now, however, confronted by an interesting but difficult question.
Throughout all this grand past and future career of the solar system which
we have just briefly traced, we have been witnessing a most prodigal
dissipation of energy in the shape of radiant heat. At the outset we had an
enormous quantity of what is called "energy of position," that is, the outer
parts of our primitive nebula had a very long distance through which to
travel towards one another in the slow process of concentration; and this
distance was the measure of the quantity of work possible to our system. As
the particles of our nebula drew nearer and nearer together, the energy of
position continually lost reappeared continually as heat, of which the
greater part was radiated off, but of which a certain amount was retained.
All the gigantic amount of work achieved in the geologic development of
our earth and its companion planets, and in the development of life
wherever life may exist in our system, has been the product of this retained
heat. At the present day the same wasteful process is going on. Each
moment the sun's particles are losing energy of position as they draw closer
and closer together, and the heat into which this lost energy is
metamorphosed is poured out most prodigally in every direction. Let us
consider for a moment how little of it gets used in our system. The earth's
orbit is a nearly circular figure more than five hundred million miles in
circumference, while only eight thousand miles of this path are at any one
time occupied by the earth's mass. Through these eight thousand miles the
sun's radiated energy is doing work, but through the remainder of the five
hundred million it is idle and wasted. But the case is far more striking when
we reflect that it is not in the plane of the earth's orbit only that the sun's
radiance is being poured out. It is not an affair of a circle, but of a sphere. In
order to utilize all the solar rays, we should need to have an immense

number of earths arranged so as to touch each other, forming a hollow
sphere around the sun, with the present radius of the earth's orbit. We may
well believe Professor Tyndall, therefore, when he tells us that all the solar
radiance we receive is less than a two-billionth part of what is sent flying
through the desert regions of space. Some of the immense residue of course
hits other planets stationed in the way of it, and is utilized upon their
surfaces; but the planets, all put together, stop so little of the total quantity
that our startling illustration is not materially altered by taking them into the
account. Now this two-billionth part of the solar radiance poured out from
moment to moment suffices to blow every wind, to raise every cloud, to
drive every engine, to build up the tissue of every plant, to sustain the
activity of every animal, including man, upon the surface of our vast and
stately globe. Considering the wondrous richness and variety of the
terrestrial life wrought out by the few sunbeams which we catch in our
career through space, we may well pause overwhelmed and stupefied at the
thought of the incalculable possibilities of existence which are thrown away
with the potent actinism that darts unceasingly into the unfathomed abysms
of immensity. Where it goes to or what becomes of it, no one of us can
surmise.
Now when, in the remote future, our sun is reduced to vapour by the
impact of the several planets upon his surface, the resulting nebulous mass
must be a very insignificant affair compared with the nebulous mass with
which we started. In order to make a second nebula equal in size and
potential energy to the first one, all the energy of position at first existing
should have been retained in some form or other. But nearly all of it has
been lost, and only an insignificant fraction remains with which to endow a
new system. In order to reproduce, in future ages, anything like that
cosmical development which is now going on in the solar system, aid must
be sought from without. We must endeavour to frame some valid hypothesis
as to the relation of our solar system to other systems.
Thus far our view has been confined to the career of a single star,—our
sun,—with the tiny, easily-cooling balls which it has cast off in the course
of its development. Thus far, too, our inferences have been very secure, for
we have been dealing with a circumscribed group of phenomena, the
beginning and end of which have been brought pretty well within the
compass of our imagination. It is quite another thing to deal with the actual
or probable career of the stars in general, inasmuch as we do not even know

how many stars there are, which form parts of a common system, or what
are their precise dynamic relations to one another. Nevertheless we have
knowledge of a few facts which may support some cautious inferences. All
the stars which we can see are undoubtedly bound together by relations of
gravitation. No doubt our sun attracts all the other stars within our ken, and
is reciprocally attracted by them. The stars, too, lie mostly in or around one
great plane, as is the case with the members of the solar system. Moreover,
the stars are shown by the spectroscope to consist of chemical elements
identical with those which are found in the solar system. Such facts as these
make it probable that the career of other stars, when adequately inquired
into, would be found to be like that of our own sun. Observation daily
enhances this probability, for our study of the sidereal universe is
continually showing us stars in all stages of development. We find irregular
nebulae, for example; we find spiral and spheroidal nebulae; we find stars
which have got beyond the nebulous stage, but are still at a whiter heat than
our sun; and we also find many stars which yield the same sort of spectrum
as our sun. The inference seems forced upon us that the same process of
concentration which has gone on in the case of our solar nebula has been
going on in the case of other nebulae. The history of the sun is but a type of
the history of stars in general. And when we consider that all other visible
stars and nebulae are cooling and contracting bodies, like our sun, to what
other conclusion could we very well come? When we look at Sirius, for
instance, we do not see him surrounded by planets, for at such a distance no
planet could be visible, even Sirius himself, though fourteen times larger
than our sun, appearing only as a "twinkling little star." But a comparative
survey of the heavens assures us that Sirius can hardly have arrived at his
present stage of concentration without detaching, planet-forming rings, for
there is no reason for supposing that mechanical laws out there are at all
different from what they are in our own system. And the same kind of
inference must apply to all the matured stars which we see in the heavens.
When we duly take all these things into the account, the case of our solar
system will appear as only one of a thousand cases of evolution and
dissolution with which the heavens furnish us. Other stars, like our sun,
have undoubtedly started as vaporous masses, and have thrown off planets
in contracting. The inference may seem a bold one, but it after all involves
no other assumption than that of the continuity of natural phenomena. It is
not likely, therefore, that the solar system will forever be left to itself. Stars

which strongly gravitate toward each other, while moving through a
perennially resisting medium, must in time be drawn together. The collision
of our extinct sun with one of the Pleiades, after this manner, would very
likely suffice to generate even a grander nebula than the one with which we
started. Possibly the entire galactic system may, in an inconceivably remote
future, remodel itself in this way; and possibly the nebula from which our
own group of planets has been formed may have owed its origin to the
disintegration of systems which had accomplished their career in the depths
of the bygone eternity.
When the problem is extended to these huge dimensions, the prospect of
an ultimate cessation of cosmical work is indefinitely postponed, but at the
same time it becomes impossible for us to deal very securely with the
questions we have raised. The magnitudes and periods we have introduced
are so nearly infinite as to baffle speculation itself: One point, however, we
seem dimly to discern. Supposing the stellar universe not to be absolutely
infinite in extent, we may hold that the day of doom, so often postponed,
must come at last. The concentration of matter and dissipation of energy, so
often checked, must in the end prevail, so that, as the final outcome of
things, the entire universe will be reduced to a single enormous ball, dead
and frozen, solid and black, its potential energy of motion having been all
transformed into heat and radiated away. Such a conclusion has been
suggested by Sir William Thomson, and it is quite forcibly stated by the
authors of "The Unseen Universe." They remind us that "if there be any one
form of energy less readily or less completely transformable than the others,
and if transformations constantly go on, more and more of the whole energy
of the universe will inevitably sink into this lower grade as time advances."
Now radiant heat, as we have seen, is such a lower grade of energy. "At
each transformation of heat-energy into work, a large portion is degraded,
while only a small portion is transformed into work. So that while it is very
easy to change all of our mechanical or useful energy into heat, it is only
possible to transform a portion of this heat-energy back again into work.
After each change, too, the heat becomes more and more dissipated or
degraded, and less and less available for any future transformation. In other
words," our authors continue, "the tendency of heat is towards equalization;
heat is par excellence the communist of our universe, and it will no doubt
ultimately bring the system to an end..... It is absolutely certain that life, so
far as it is physical, depends essentially upon transformations of energy; it

is also absolutely certain that age after age the possibility of such
transformations is becoming less and less; and, so far as we yet know, the
final state of the present universe must be an aggregation (into one mass) of
all the matter it contains, i. e. the potential energy gone, and a practically
useless state of kinetic energy, i. e. uniform temperature throughout that
mass." Thus our authors conclude that the visible universe began in time
and will in time come to an end; and they add that under the physical
conditions of such a universe "immortality is impossible."
Concerning the latter inference we shall by and by have something to say.
Meanwhile this whole speculation as to the final cessation of cosmical work
seems to me—as it does to my friend, Professor Clifford 3—by no means
trustworthy. The conditions of the problem so far transcend our grasp that
any such speculation must remain an unverifiable guess. I do not go with
Professor Clifford in doubting whether the laws of mechanics are absolutely
the same throughout eternity; I cannot quite reconcile such a doubt with
faith in the principle of continuity. But it does seem to me needful, before
we conclude that radiated energy is absolutely and forever wasted, that we
should find out what becomes of it. What we call radiant heat is simply
transverse wave-motion, propagated with enormous velocity through an
ocean of subtle ethereal matter which bathes the atoms of all visible or
palpable bodies and fills the whole of space, extending beyond the remotest
star which the telescope can reach. Whether there are any bounds at all to
this ethereal ocean, or whether it is as infinite as space itself, we cannot
surmise. If it be limited, the possible dispersion of radiant energy is limited
by its extent. Heat and light cannot travel through emptiness. If the ether is
bounded by surrounding emptiness, then a ray of heat, on arriving at this
limiting emptiness, would be reflected back as surely as a ball is sent back
when thrown against a solid wall. If this be the case, it will not affect our
conclusions concerning such a tiny region of space as is occupied by the
solar system, but it will seriously modify Sir William Thomson's suggestion
as to the fate of the universe as a whole. The radiance thrown away by the
sun is indeed lost so far as the future of our system is concerned, but not a
single unit of it is lost from the universe. Sooner or later, reflected back in
all directions, it must do work in one quarter or another, so that ultimate
stagnation be comes impossible. It is true that no such return of radiant
energy has been detected in our corner of the world; but we have not yet so
far disentangled all the force-relations of the universe that we are entitled to

regard such a return as impossible. This is one way of escape from the
consummation of things depicted by our authors. Another way of escape is
equally available, if we suppose that while the ether is without bounds the
stellar universe also extends to infinity. For in this case the reproduction of
nebulous masses fit for generating new systems of worlds must go on
through space that is endless, and consequently the process can never come
to an end and can never have had a beginning. We have, therefore, three
alternatives: either the visible universe is finite, while the ether is infinite;
or both are finite; or both are infinite. Only on the first supposition, I think,
do we get a universe which began in time and must end in time. Between
such stupendous alternatives we have no grounds for choosing. But it would
seem that the third, whether strictly true or not, best represents the state of
the case relatively to our feeble capacity of comprehension. Whether
absolutely infinite or not, the dimensions of the universe must be taken as
practically infinite, so far as human thought is concerned. They
immeasurably transcend the capabilities of any gauge we can bring to bear
on them. Accordingly all that we are really entitled to hold, as the outcome
of sound speculation, is the conception of innumerable systems of worlds
concentrating out of nebulous masses, and then rushing together and
dissolving into similar masses, as bubbles unite and break up—now here,
now there—in their play on the surface of a pool, and to this tremendous
series of events we can assign neither a beginning nor an end.
We must now make some more explicit mention of the ether which
carries through space the rays of heat and light. In closest connection with
the visible stellar universe, the vicissitudes of which we have briefly traced,
the all-pervading ether constitutes a sort of unseen world remarkable
enough from any point of view, but to which the theory of our authors
ascribes capacities hitherto unsuspected by science. The very existence of
an ocean of ether enveloping the molecules of material bodies has been
doubted or denied by many eminent physicists, though of course none have
called in question the necessity for some interstellar medium for the
transmission of thermal and luminous vibrations. This scepticism has been,
I think, partially justified by the many difficulties encompassing the
conception, into which, however, we need not here enter. That light and
heat cannot be conveyed by any of the ordinary sensible forms of matter is
unquestionable. None of the forms of sensible matter can be imagined
sufficiently elastic to propagate wave-motion at the rate of one hundred and

eighty-eight thousand miles per second. Yet a ray of light is a series of
waves, and implies some substance in which the waves occur. The
substance required is one which seems to possess strangely contradictory
properties. It is commonly regarded as an "ether" or infinitely rare
substance; but, as Professor Jevons observes, we might as well regard it as
an infinitely solid "adamant." "Sir John Herschel has calculated the amount
of force which may be supposed, according to the undulatory theory of
light, to be exerted at each point in space, and finds it to be
1,148,000,000,000 times the elastic force of ordinary air at the earth's
surface, so that the pressure of the ether upon a square inch of surface must
be about 17,000,000,000,000, or seventeen billions of pounds." 4 Yet at the
same time the resistance offered by the ether to the planetary motions is too
minute to be appreciable. "All our ordinary notions," says Professor Jevons,
"must be laid aside in contemplating such an hypothesis; yet [it is] no more
than the observed phenomena of light and heat force us to accept. We
cannot deny even the strange suggestion of Dr. Young, that there may be
independent worlds, some possibly existing in different parts of space, but
others perhaps pervading each other, unseen and unknown, in the same
space. For if we are bound to admit the conception of this adamantine
firmament, it is equally easy to admit a plurality of such."
The ether, therefore, is unlike any of the forms of matter which we can
weigh and measure. In some respects it resembles a fluid, in some respects
a solid. It is both hard and elastic to an almost inconceivable degree. It fills
all material bodies like a sea in which the atoms of the material bodies are
as islands, and it occupies the whole of what we call empty space. It is so
sensitive that a disturbance in any part of it causes a "tremour which is felt
on the surface of countless worlds." Our old experiences of matter give us
no account of any substance like this; yet the undulatory theory of light
obliges us to admit such a substance, and that theory is as well established
as the theory of gravitation. Obviously we have here an enlargement of our
experience of matter. The analysis of the phenomena of light and radiant
heat has brought us into mental relations with matter in a different state
from any in which we previously knew it. For the supposition that the ether
may be something essentially different from matter is contradicted by all
the terms we have used in describing it. Strange and contradictory as its
properties may seem, are they any more strange than the properties of a gas
would seem if we were for the first time to discover a gas after heretofore

knowing nothing but solids and liquids? I think not; and the conclusion
implied by our authors seems to me eminently probable, that in the so-
called ether we have simply a state of matter more primitive than what we
know as the gaseous state. Indeed, the conceptions of matter now current,
and inherited from barbarous ages, are likely enough to be crude in the
extreme. It is not strange that the study of such subtle agencies as heat and
light should oblige us to modify them; and it will not be strange if the study
of electricity should entail still further revision of our ideas.
We are now brought to one of the profoundest speculations of modern
times, the vortex-atom theory of Helmholtz and Thomson, in which the
evolution of ordinary matter from ether is plainly indicated. The reader first
needs to know what vortex-motion is; and this has been so beautifully
explained by Professor Clifford, that I quote his description entire: "Imagine
a ring of india-rubber, made by joining together the ends of a cylindrical
piece (like a lead-pencil before it is cut), to be put upon a round stick which
it will just fit with a little stretching. Let the stick be now pulled through the
ring while the latter is kept in its place by being pulled the other way on the
outside. The india-rubber has then what is called vortex-motion. Before the
ends were joined together, while it was straight, it might have been made to
turn around without changing position, by rolling it between the hands. Just
the same motion of rotation it has on the stick, only that the ends are now
joined together. All the inside surface of the ring is going one way, namely,
the way the stick is pulled; and all the outside is going the other way. Such a
vortex-ring is made by the smoker who purses his lips into a round hole and
sends out a puff of smoke. The outside of the ring is kept back by the
friction of his lips while the inside is going forwards; thus a rotation is set
up all round the smoke-ring as it travels out into the air." In these cases, and
in others as we commonly find it, vortex-motion owes its origin to friction
and is after a while brought to an end by friction. But in 1858 the equations
of motion of an incompressible frictionless fluid were first successfully
solved by Helmholtz, and among other things he proved that, though
vortex-motion could not be originated in such a fluid, yet supposing it once
to exist, it would exist to all eternity and could not be diminished by any
mechanical action whatever. A vortex-ring, for example, in such a fluid,
would forever preserve its own rotation, and would thus forever retain its
peculiar individuality, being, as it were, marked off from its neighbour
vortex-rings. Upon this mechanical truth Sir William Thomson based his

wonderfully suggestive theory of the constitution of matter. That which is
permanent or indestructible in matter is the ultimate homogeneous atom;
and this is probably all that is permanent, since chemists now almost
unanimously hold that so-called elementary molecules are not really simple,
but owe their sensible differences to the various groupings of an ultimate
atom which is alike for all. Relatively to our powers of comprehension the
atom endures eternally; that is, it retains forever unalterable its definite
mass and its definite rate of vibration. Now this is just what a vortex-ring
would do in an incompressible frictionless fluid. Thus the startling question
is suggested, Why may not the ultimate atoms of matter be vortex-rings
forever existing in such a frictionless fluid filling the whole of space? Such
a hypothesis is not less brilliant than Huyghens's conjectural identification
of light with undulatory motion; and it is moreover a legitimate hypothesis,
since it can be brought to the test of verification. Sir William Thomson has
shown that it explains a great many of the physical properties of matter: it
remains to be seen whether it can explain them all.
Of course the ether which conveys thermal and luminous undulations is
not the frictionless fluid postulated by Sir William Thomson. The most
conspicuous property of the ether is its enormous elasticity, a property
which we should not find in a frictionless fluid. "To account for such
elasticity," says Professor Clifford (whose exposition of the subject is still
more lucid than that of our authors), "it has to be supposed that even where
there are no material molecules the universal fluid is full of vortex-motion,
but that the vortices are smaller and more closely packed than those of
[ordinary] matter, forming altogether a more finely grained structure. So
that the difference between matter and ether is reduced to a mere difference
in the size and arrangement of the component vortex-rings. Now, whatever
may turn out to be the ultimate nature of the ether and of molecules, we
know that to some extent at least they obey the same dynamic laws, and that
they act upon one another in accordance with these laws. Until, therefore, it
is absolutely disproved, it must remain the simplest and most probable
assumption that they are finally made of the same stuff, that the material
molecule is some kind of knot or coagulation of ether." 5
Another interesting consequence of Sir William Thomson's pregnant
hypothesis is that the absolute hardness which has been attributed to
material atoms from the time of Lucretius downward may be dispensed
with. Somewhat in the same way that a loosely suspended chain becomes

rigid with rapid rotation, the hardness and elasticity of the vortex-atom are
explained as due to the swift rotary motion of a soft and yielding fluid. So
that the vortex-atom is really indivisible, not by reason of its hardness or
solidity, but by reason of the indestructibleness of its motion.
Supposing, now, that we adopt provisionally the vortex theory,—the great
power of which is well shown by the consideration just mentioned,—we
must not forget that it is absolutely essential to the indestructibleness of the
material atom that the universal fluid in which it has an existence as a
vortex-ring should be entirely destitute of friction. Once admit even the
most infinitesimal amount of friction, while retaining the conception of
vortex-motion in a universal fluid, and the whole case is so far altered that
the material atom can no longer be regarded as absolutely indestructible,
but only as indefinitely enduring. It may have been generated, in bygone
eternity, by a natural process of evolution, and in future eternity may come
to an end. Relatively to our powers of comprehension the practical
difference is perhaps not great. Scientifically speaking, Helmholtz and
Thomson are as well entitled to reason upon the assumption of a perfectly
frictionless fluid as geometers in general are entitled to assume perfect lines
without breadth and perfect surfaces without thickness. Perfect lines and
surfaces do not exist within the region of our experience; yet the
conclusions of geometry are none the less true ideally, though in any
particular concrete instance they are only approximately realized. Just so
with the conception of a frictionless fluid. So far as experience goes, such a
thing has no more real existence than a line without breadth; and hence an
atomic theory based upon such an assumption may be as true ideally as any
of the theorems of Euclid, but it can give only an approximatively true
account of the actual universe. These considerations do not at all affect the
scientific value of the theory; but they will modify the tenour of such
transcendental inferences as may be drawn from it regarding, the probable
origin and destiny of the universe.
The conclusions reached in the first part of this paper, while we were
dealing only with gross visible matter, may have seemed bold enough; but
they are far surpassed by the inference which our authors draw from the
vortex theory as they interpret it. Our authors exhibit various reasons, more
or less sound, for attributing to the primordial fluid some slight amount of
friction; and in support of this view they adduce Le Sage's explanation of
gravitation as a differential result of pressure, and Struve's theory of the

partial absorption of light-rays by the ether,—questions with which our
present purpose does not require us to meddle. Apart from such questions it
is every way probable that the primary assumption of Helmholtz and
Thomson is only an approximation to the truth. But if we accredit the
primordial fluid with even an infinitesimal amount of friction, then we are
required to conceive of the visible universe as developed from the invisible
and as destined to return into the invisible. The vortex-atom, produced by
infinitesimal friction operating through wellnigh infinite time, is to be
ultimately abolished by the agency which produced it. In the words of our
authors, "If the visible universe be developed from an invisible which is not
a perfect fluid, then the argument deduced by Sir William Thomson in
favour of the eternity of ordinary matter disappears, since this eternity
depends upon the perfect fluidity of the invisible. In fine, if we suppose the
material universe to be composed of a series of vortex-rings developed from
an invisible universe which is not a perfect fluid, it will be ephemeral, just
as the smoke-ring which we develop from air, or that which we develop
from water, is ephemeral, the only difference being in duration, these
lasting only for a few seconds, and the others it may be for billions of
years." Thus, as our authors suppose that "the available energy of the visible
universe will ultimately be appropriated by the invisible," they go on to
imagine, "at least as a possibility, that the separate existence of the visible
universe will share the same fate, so that we shall have no huge, useless,
inert mass existing in after ages to remind the passer-by of a form of energy
and a species of matter that is long since out of date and functionally effete.
Why should not the universe bury its dead out of sight?"
In one respect perhaps no more stupendous subject of contemplation than
this has ever been offered to the mind of man. In comparison with the
length of time thus required to efface the tiny individual atom, the entire
cosmical career of our solar system, or even that of the whole starry galaxy,
shrinks into utter nothingness. Whether we shall adopt the conclusion
suggested must depend on the extent of our speculative audacity. We have
seen wherein its probability consists, but in reasoning upon such a scale we
may fitly be cautious and modest in accepting inferences, and our authors,
we may be sure, would be the first to recommend such modesty and
caution. Even at the dimensions to which our theorizing has here grown, we
may for instance discern the possible alternative of a simultaneous or
rhythmically successive generation and destruction of vortex-atoms which

would go far to modify the conclusion just suggested. But here we must
pause for a moment, reserving for a second paper the weightier thoughts as
to futurity which our authors have sought to enwrap in these sublime
physical speculations.

PART SECOND.
UP to this point, however remote from ordinary every-day thoughts may
be the region of speculation which we have been called upon to traverse, we
have still kept within the limits of legitimate scientific hypothesis. Though
we have ventured for a goodly distance into the unknown, we have not yet
been required to abandon our base of operations in the known. Of the views
presented in the preceding paper, some are wellnigh certainly established,
some are probable, some have a sort of plausibility, others—to which we
have refrained from giving assent—may possibly be true; but none are
irretrievably beyond the jurisdiction of scientific tests. No suggestion has so
far been broached which a very little further increase of our scientific
knowledge may not show to be either eminently probable or eminently
improbable. We have kept pretty clear of mere subjective guesses, such as
men may wrangle about forever without coming to any conclusion. The
theory of the nebular origin of our planetary system has come to command
the assent of all persons qualified to appreciate the evidence on which it is
based; and the more immediate conclusions which we have drawn from that
theory are only such as are commonly drawn by astronomers and physicists.
The doctrine of an intermolecular and interstellar ether is wrapped up in the
well-established undulatory theory of light. Such is by no means the case
with Sir William Thomson's vortex-atom theory, which to-day is in
somewhat the same condition as the undulatory theory of Huyghens two
centuries ago. This, however, is none the less a hypothesis truly scientific in
conception, and in the speculations to which it leads us we are still sure of
dealing with views that admit at least of definite expression and treatment.
In other words, though our study of the visible universe has led us to the
recognition of a kind of unseen world underlying the world of things that
are seen, yet concerning the economy of this unseen world we have not
been led to entertain any hypothesis that has not its possible justification in
our experiences of visible phenomena.
We are now called upon, following in the wake of our esteemed authors,
to venture on a different sort of exploration, in which we must cut loose
altogether from our moorings in the world of which we have definite

experience. We are invited to entertain suggestions concerning the peculiar
economy of the invisible portion of the universe which we have no means
of subjecting to any sort of test of probability, either experimental or
deductive. These suggestions are, therefore, not to be regarded as properly
scientific; but, with this word of caution, we may proceed to show what
they are.
Compared with the life and death of cosmical systems which we have
heretofore contemplated, the life and death of individuals of the human race
may perhaps seem a small matter; yet because we are ourselves the men
who live and die, the small event is of vastly greater interest to us than the
grand series of events of which it is part and parcel. It is natural that we
should be more interested in the ultimate fate of humanity than in the fate of
a world which is of no account to us save as our present dwelling-place.
Whether the human soul is to come to an end or not is to us a more
important question than whether the visible universe, with its matter and
energy, is to be absorbed in an invisible ether. It is indeed only because we
are interested in the former question that we are so curious about the latter.
If we could dissociate ourselves from the material universe, our habitat, we
should probably speculate much less about its past and future. We care very
little what becomes of the black ball of the earth, after all life has vanished
from its surface; or, if we care at all about it, it is only because our thoughts
about the career of the earth are necessarily mixed up with our thoughts
about life. Hence in considering the probable ultimate destiny of the
physical universe, our innermost purpose must be to know what is to
become of all this rich and wonderful life of which the physical universe is
the theatre. Has it all been developed, apparently at almost infinite waste of
effort, only to be abolished again before it has attained to completeness, or
does it contain or shelter some indestructible element which having drawn
sustenance for a while from the senseless turmoil of physical phenomena
shall still survive their final decay? This question is closely connected with
the time-honoured question of the meaning, purpose, or tendency of the
world. In the career of the world is life an end, or a means toward an end, or
only an incidental phenomenon in which we can discover no meaning?
Contemporary theologians seem generally to believe that one necessary
result of modern scientific inquiry must be the destruction of the belief in
immortal life, since against every thoroughgoing expounder of scientific
knowledge they seek to hurl the charge of "materialism." Their doubts,

however, are not shared by our authors, thorough men of science as they
are, though their mode of dealing with the question may not be such as we
can well adopt. While upholding the doctrine of evolution, and all the so-
called "materialistic" views of modern science, they not only regard the
hypothesis of a future life as admissible, but they even go so far as to
propound a physical theory as to the nature of existence after death. Let us
see what this physical theory is.
As far as the visible universe is concerned, we do not find in it any
evidence of immortality or of permanence of any sort, unless it be in the
sum of potential and kinetic energies on the persistency of which depends
our principle of continuity. In ordinary language "the stars in their courses"
serve as symbols of permanence, yet we have found reason to regard them
as but temporary phenomena. So, in the language of our authors, "if we take
the individual man, we find that he lives his short tale of years, and that
then the visible machinery which connects him with the past, as well as that
which enables him to act in the present, falls into ruin and is brought to an
end. If any germ or potentiality remains, it is certainly not connected with
the visible order of things." In like manner our race is pretty sure to come to
an end long before the destruction of the planet from which it now gets its
sustenance. And in our authors opinion even the universe will by and by
become "old and effete, no less truly than the individual: it is a glorious
garment this visible universe, but not an immortal one; we must look
elsewhere if we are to be clothed with immortality as with a garment."
It is at this point that our authors call attention to "the apparently wasteful
character of the arrangements of the visible universe." The fact is one which
we have already sufficiently described, but we shall do well to quote the
words in which our authors recur to it: "All but a very small portion of the
sun's heat goes day by day into what we call empty space, and it is only this
very small remainder that is made use of by the various planets for purposes
of their own. Can anything be more perplexing than this seemingly frightful
expenditure of the very life and essence of the system? That this vast store
of high-class energy should be doing nothing but travelling outwards in
space at the rate of 188,000 miles per second is hardly conceivable,
especially when the result of it is the inevitable destruction of the visible
universe."

Pursuing this teleological argument, it is suggested that perhaps this
apparent waste of energy is "only an arrangement in virtue of which our
universe keeps up a memory of the past at the expense of the present,
inasmuch as all memory consists in an investiture of present resources in
order to keep a hold upon the past." Recourse is had to the ingenious
argument in which Mr. Babbage showed that "if we had power to follow
and detect the minutest effects of any disturbance, each particle of existing
matter must be a register of all that has happened. The track of every canoe,
of every vessel that has yet disturbed the surface of the ocean, whether
impelled by manual force or elemental power, remains forever registered in
the future movement of all succeeding particles which may occupy its
place. The furrow which is left is, indeed, instantly filled up by the closing
waters; but they draw after them other and larger portions of the
surrounding element, and these again, once moved, communicate motion to
others in endless succession." In like manner, "the air itself is one vast
library, on whose pages are forever written all that man has ever said or
even whispered. There in their mutable but unerring characters, mixed with
the earliest as well as the latest sighs of mortality, stand forever recorded
vows unredeemed, promises unfulfilled, perpetuating in the united
movements of each particle the testimony of man's changeful will." 6 In
some such way as this, records of every movement that takes place in the
world are each moment transmitted, with the speed of light, through the
invisible ocean of ether with which the world is surrounded. Even the
molecular displacements which occur in our brains when we feel and think
are thus propagated in their effects into the unseen world. The world of
ether is thus regarded by our authors as in some sort the obverse or
complement of the world of sensible matter, so that whatever energy is
dissipated in the one is by the same act accumulated in the other. It is like
the negative plate in photography, where light answers to shadow and
shadow to light. Or, still better, it is like the case of an equation in which
whatever quantity you take from one side is added to the other with a
contrary sign, while the relation of equality remains undisturbed. Thus, it
will be noticed, from the ingenious and subtle, but quite defensible
suggestion of Mr. Babbage, a leap is made to an assumption which cannot
be defended scientifically, but only teleologically. It is one thing to say that
every movement in the visible world transmits a record of itself to the
surrounding ether, in such a way that from the undulation of the ether a

sufficiently powerful intelligence might infer the character of the generating
movement in the visible world. It is quite another thing to say that the ether
is organized in such a complex and delicate way as to be like a negative
image or counterpart of the world of sensible matter. The latter view is no
doubt ingenious, but it is gratuitous. It is sustained not by scientific analogy,
but by the desire to find some assignable use for the energy which is
constantly escaping from visible matter into invisible ether. The moment we
ask how do we know that this energy is not really wasted, or that it is not
put to some use wholly undiscoverable by human intelligence, this
assumption of an organized ether is at once seen to be groundless. It
belongs not to the region of science, but to that of pure mythology.
In justice to our authors, however, it should be remembered that this
assumption is put forth not as something scientifically probable, but as
something which for aught we know to the contrary may possibly be true.
This, to be sure, we need not deny; nor if we once allow this prodigious
leap of inference, shall we find much difficulty in reaching the famous
conclusion that "thought conceived to affect the matter of another universe
simultaneously with this may explain a future state." This proposition,
quaintly couched in an anagram, like the discoveries of old astronomers,
was published last year in "Nature," as containing the gist of the
forthcoming book. On the negative-image hypothesis it is not hard to see
how thought is conceived to affect the seen and the unseen worlds
simultaneously. Every act of consciousness is accompanied by molecular
displacements in the brain, and these are of course responded to by
movements in the ethereal world. Thus as a series of conscious states build
up a continuous memory in strict accordance with physical laws of motion,
7 so a correlative memory is simultaneously built up in the ethereal world
out of the ethereal correlatives of the molecular displacements which go on
in our brains. And as there is a continual transfer of energy from the visible
world to the ether, the extinction of vital energy which we call death must
coincide in some way with the awakening of vital energy in the correlative
world; so that the darkening of consciousness here is coincident with its
dawning there. In this way death is for the individual but a transfer from
one physical state of existence to another; and so, on the largest scale, the
death or final loss of energy by the whole visible universe has its
counterpart in the acquirement of a maximum of life by the correlative
unseen world.

There seems to be a certain sort of rigorous logical consistency in this
daring speculation; but really the propositions of which it consists are so far
from answering to anything within the domain of human experience that we
are unable to tell whether any one of them logically follows from its
predecessor or not. It is evident that we are quite out of the region of
scientific tests, and to whatever view our authors may urge we can only
languidly assent that it is out of our power to disprove it.
The essential weakness of such a theory as this lies in the fact that it is
thoroughly materialistic in character. It is currently assumed that the
doctrine of a life after death cannot be defended on materialistic grounds,
but this is altogether too hasty an assumption. Our authors, indeed, are not
philosophical materialists, like Dr. Priestley,—who nevertheless believed in
a future life,—but one of the primary doctrines of materialism lies at the
bottom of their argument. Materialism holds for one thing that
consciousness is a product of a peculiar organization of matter, and for
another thing that consciousness cannot survive the disorganization of the
material body with which it is associated. As held by philosophical
materialists, like Buchner and Moleschott, these two opinions are strictly
consistent with each other; nay, the latter seems to be the inevitable
inference from the former, though Priestley did not so regard it. Now our
authors very properly refuse to commit themselves to the opinion that mind
is the product of matter, but their argument nevertheless implies that some
sort of material vehicle is necessary for the continuance of mind in a future
state of existence. This material vehicle they seek to supply in the theory
which connects by invisible bonds of transmitted energy the perishable
material body with its counterpart in the world of ether. The materialism of
the argument is indeed partly veiled by the terminology in which this
counterpart is called a "spiritual body," but in this novel use or abuse of
scriptural language there seems to me to be a strange confusion of ideas.
Bear in mind that the "invisible universe" into which energy is constantly
passing is simply the luminiferous ether, which our authors, to suit the
requirements of their hypothesis, have gratuitously endowed with a
complexity and variety of structure analogous to that of the visible world of
matter. Their language is not always quite so precise as one could desire, for
while they sometimes speak of the ether itself as the "unseen universe,"
they sometimes allude to a primordial medium yet subtler in constitution
and presumably more immaterial. Herein lies the confusion. Why should

the luminiferous ether, or any primordial medium in which it may have
been generated, be regarded as in any way "spiritual"? Great physicists, like
less trained thinkers, are sometimes liable to be unconsciously influenced
by old associations of ideas which, ostensibly repudiated, still lurk under
cover of the words we use. I fear that the old associations which led the
ancients to describe the soul as a breath or a shadow, and which account for
the etymologies of such words as "ghost" and "spirit," have had something
to do with this spiritualization of the interstellar ether. Some share may also
have been contributed by the Platonic notion of the "grossness" or
"bruteness" of tangible matter,—a notion which has survived in Christian
theology, and which educated men of the present day have by no means
universally outgrown. Save for some such old associations as these, why
should it be supposed that matter becomes "spriritualized" as it diminishes
in apparent substantiality? Why should matter be pronounced respectable in
the inverse ratio of its density or ponderability? Why is a diamond any more
chargeable with "grossness" than a cubic centimetre of hydrogen?
Obviously such fancies are purely of mythologic parentage. Now the
luminiferous ether, upon which our authors make such extensive demands,
may be physically "ethereal" enough, in spite of the enormous elasticity
which leads Professor Jevons to characterize it as "adamantine"; but most
assuredly we have not the slightest reason for speaking of it as "immaterial"
or "spiritual." Though we are unable to weigh it in the balance, we at least
know it as a transmitter of undulatory movements, the size and shape of
which we can accurately measure. Its force-relations with ponderable
matter are not only universally and incessantly maintained, but they have
that precisely quantitative character which implies an essential identity
between the innermost natures of the two substances. We have seen reason
for thinking it probable that ether and ordinary matter are alike composed of
vortex-rings in a quasi-frictionless fluid; but whatever be the fate of this
subtle hypothesis, we may be sure that no theory will ever be entertained in
which the analysis of ether shall require different symbols from that of
ordinary matter. In our authors' theory, therefore, the putting on of
immortality is in no wise the passage from a material to a spiritual state. It
is the passage from one kind of materially conditioned state to another. The
theory thus appeals directly to our experiences of the behaviour of matter;
and in deriving so little support as it does from these experiences, it remains
an essentially weak speculation, whatever we may think of its ingenuity.

For so long as we are asked to accept conclusions drawn from our
experiences of the material world, we are justified in demanding something
more than mere unconditioned possibility. We require some positive
evidence, be it ever so little in amount; and no theory which cannot furnish
such positive evidence is likely to carry to our minds much practical
conviction.
This is what I meant by saying that the great weakness of the hypothesis
here criticized lies in its materialistic character. In contrast with this we
shall presently see that the assertion of a future life which is not materially
conditioned, though unsupported by any item of experience whatever, may
nevertheless be an impregnable assertion. But first I would conclude the
foregoing criticism by ruling out altogether the sense in which our authors
use the expression "Unseen Universe." Scientific inference, however
remote, is connected by such insensible gradations with ordinary
perception, that one may well question the propriety of applying the term
"unseen" to that which is presented to "the mind's eye" as inevitable matter
of inference. It is true that we cannot see the ocean of ether in which visible
matter floats; but there are many other invisible things which yet we do not
regard as part of the "unseen world." I do not see the air which I am now
breathing within the four walls of my study, yet its existence is sufficiently
a matter of sense-perception as it fills my lungs and fans my cheek. The
atoms which compose a drop of water are not only invisible, but cannot in
any way be made the objects of sense-perception; yet by proper inferences
from their behaviour we can single them out for measurement, so that Sir
William Thomson can tell us that if the drop of water were magnified to the
size of the earth, the constituent atoms would be larger than peas, but not so
large as billiard-balls. If we do not see such atoms with our eyes, we have
one adequate reason in their tiny dimensions, though there are further
reasons than this. It would be hard to say why the luminiferous ether should
be relegated to the "unseen world" any more than the material atom.
Whatever we know as possessing resistance and extension, whatever we
can subject to mathematical processes of measurement, we also conceive as
existing in such shape that, with appropriate eyes and under proper visual
conditions, we MIGHT see it, and we are not entitled to draw any line of
demarcation between such an object of inference and others which may be
made objects of sense-perception. To set apart the ether as constituting an
"unseen universe" is therefore illegitimate and confusing. It introduces a

distinction where there is none, and obscures the fact that both invisible
ether and visible matter form but one grand universe in which the sum of
energy remains constant, though the order of its distribution endlessly
varies.
Very different would be the logical position of a theory which should
assume the existence of an "Unseen World" entirely spiritual in constitution,
and in which material conditions like those of the visible world should have
neither place nor meaning. Such a world would not consist of ethers or
gases or ghosts, but of purely psychical relations akin to such as constitute
thoughts and feelings when our minds are least solicited by sense-
perceptions. In thus marking off the "Unseen World" from the objective
universe of which we have knowledge, our line of demarcation would at
least be drawn in the right place. The distinction between psychical and
material phenomena is a distinction of a different order from all other
distinctions known to philosophy, and it immeasurably transcends all
others. The progress of modern discovery has in no respect weakened the
force of Descartes's remark, that between that of which the differential
attribute is Thought and that of which the differential attribute is Extension,
there can be no similarity, no community of nature whatever. By no
scientific cunning of experiment or deduction can Thought be weighed or
measured or in any way assimilated to such things as may be made the
actual or possible objects of sense-perception. Modern discovery, so far
from bridging over the chasm between Mind and Matter, tends rather to
exhibit the distinction between them as absolute. It has, indeed, been
rendered highly probable that every act of consciousness is accompanied by
a molecular motion in the cells and fibres of the brain; and materialists have
found great comfort in this fact, while theologians and persons of little faith
have been very much frightened by it. But since no one ever pretended that
thought can go on, under the conditions of the present life, without a brain,
one finds it rather hard to sympathize either with the self-congratulations of
Dr. Buchner's disciples 8 or with the terrors of their opponents. But what has
been less commonly remarked is the fact that when the thought and the
molecular movement thus occur simultaneously, in no scientific sense is the
thought the product of the molecular movement. The sun-derived energy of
motion latent in the food we eat is variously transformed within the
organism, until some of it appears as the motion of the molecules of a little
globule of nerve-matter in the brain. In a rough way we might thus say that

the chemical energy of the food indirectly produces the motion of these
little nerve-molecules. But does this motion of nerve-molecules now
produce a thought or state of consciousness? By no means. It simply
produces some other motion of nerve-molecules, and this in turn produces
motion of contraction or expansion in some muscle, or becomes
transformed into the chemical energy of some secreting gland. At no point
in the whole circuit does a unit of motion disappear as motion to reappear
as a unit of consciousness. The physical process is complete in itself, and
the thought does not enter into it. All that we can say is, that the occurrence
of the thought is simultaneous with that part of the physical process which
consists of a molecular movement in the brain. 9 To be sure, the thought is
always there when summoned, but it stands outside the dynamic circuit, as
something utterly alien from and incomparable with the events which
summon it. No doubt, as Professor Tyndall observes, if we knew
exhaustively the physical state of the brain, "the corresponding thought or
feeling might be inferred; or, given the thought or feeling, the
corresponding state of the brain might be inferred. But how inferred? It
would be at bottom not a case of logical inference at all, but of empirical
association. You may reply that many of the inferences of science are of this
character; the inference, for example, that an electric current of a given
direction will deflect a magnetic needle in a definite way; but the cases
differ in this, that the passage from the current to the needle, if not
demonstrable, is thinkable, and that we entertain no doubt as to the final
mechanical solution of the problem. But the passage from the physics of the
brain to the corresponding facts of consciousness is unthinkable. Granted
that a definite thought and a definite molecular action in the brain occur
simultaneously; we do not possess the intellectual organ, nor apparently any
rudiment of the organ, which would enable us to pass by a process of
reasoning from the one to the other. They appear together, but we do not
know why." 10
An unseen world consisting of purely psychical or spiritual phenomena
would accordingly be demarcated by an absolute gulf from what we call the
material universe, but would not necessarily be discontinuous with the
psychical phenomena which we find manifested in connection with the
world of matter. The transfer of matter, or physical energy, or anything else
that is quantitatively measurable, into such an unseen world, may be set
down as impossible, by reason of the very definition of such a world. Any

hypothesis which should assume such a transfer would involve a
contradiction in terms. But the hypothesis of a survival of present psychical
phenomena in such a world, after being denuded of material conditions, is
not in itself absurd or self-contradictory, though it may be impossible to
support it by any arguments drawn from the domain of human experience.
Such is the shape which it seems to me that, in the present state of
philosophy, the hypothesis of a future life must assume. We have nothing to
say to gross materialistic notions of ghosts and bogies, and spirits that upset
tables and whisper to ignorant vulgar women the wonderful information
that you once had an aunt Susan. The unseen world imagined in our
hypothesis is not connected with the present material universe by any such
"invisible bonds" as would allow Bacon and Addison to come to Boston
and write the silliest twaddle in the most ungrammatical English before a
roomful of people who have never learned how to test what they are pleased
to call the "evidence of their senses." Our hypothesis is expressly framed so
as to exclude all intercourse whatever between the unseen world of spirit
unconditioned by matter and the present world of spirit conditioned by
matter in which all our experiences have been gathered. The hypothesis
being framed in such a way, the question is, What has philosophy to say to
it? Can we, by searching our experiences, find any reason for adopting such
an hypothesis? Or, on the other hand, supposing we can find no such
reason, would the total failure of experimental evidence justify us in
rejecting it?
The question is so important that I will restate it. I have imagined a world
made up of psychical phenomena, freed from the material conditions under
which alone we know such phenomena. Can we adduce any proof of the
possibility of such a world? Or if we cannot, does our failure raise the
slightest presumption that such a world is impossible?
The reply to the first clause of the question is sufficiently obvious. We
have no experience whatever of psychical phenomena save as manifested in
connection with material phenomena. We know of Mind only as a group of
activities which are never exhibited to us except through the medium of
motions of matter. In all our experience we have never encountered such
activities save in connection with certain very complicated groupings of
highly mobile material particles into aggregates which we call living
organisms. And we have never found them manifested to a very
conspicuous extent save in connection with some of those specially

organized aggregates which have vertebrate skeletons and mammary
glands. Nay, more, when we survey the net results of our experience up to
the present time, we find indisputable evidence that in the past history of
the visible universe psychical phenomena have only begun to be manifested
in connection with certain complex aggregates of material phenomena. As
these material aggregates have age by age become more complex in
structure, more complex psychical phenomena have been exhibited. The
development of Mind has from the outset been associated with the
development of Matter. And to-day, though none of us has any knowledge
of the end of psychical phenomena in his own case, yet from all the marks
by which we recognize such phenomena in our fellow-creatures, whether
brute or human, we are taught that when certain material processes have
been gradually or suddenly brought to an end, psychical phenomena are no
longer manifested. From first to last, therefore, our appeal to experience
gets but one response. We have not the faintest shadow of evidence
wherewith to make it seem probable that Mind can exist except in
connection with a material body. Viewed from this standpoint of terrestrial
experience, there is no more reason for supposing that consciousness
survives the dissolution of the brain than for supposing that the pungent
flavour of table-salt survives its decomposition into metallic sodium and
gaseous chlorine.
Our answer from this side is thus unequivocal enough. Indeed, so
uniform has been the teaching of experience in this respect that even in their
attempts to depict a life after death, men have always found themselves
obliged to have recourse to materialistic symbols. To the mind of a savage
the future world is a mere reproduction of the present, with its everlasting
huntings and fightings. The early Christians looked forward to a renovation
of the earth and the bodily resurrection from Sheol of the righteous. The
pictures of hell and purgatory, and even of paradise, in Dante's great poem,
are so intensely materialistic as to seem grotesque in this more spiritual age.
But even to-day the popular conceptions of heaven are by no means freed
from the notion of matter; and persons of high culture, who realize the
inadequacy of these popular conceptions, are wont to avoid the difficulty by
refraining from putting their hopes and beliefs into any definite or
describable form. Not unfrequently one sees a smile raised at the
assumption of knowledge or insight by preachers who describe in eloquent
terms the joys of a future state; yet the smile does not necessarily imply any

scepticism as to the abstract probability of the soul's survival. The
scepticism is aimed at the character of the description rather than at the
reality of the thing described. It implies a tacit agreement, among cultivated
people, that the unseen world must be purely spiritual in constitution. The
agreement is not habitually expressed in definite formulas, for the reason
that no mental image of a purely spiritual world can be formed. Much stress
is commonly laid upon the recognition of friends in a future life; and
however deep a meaning may be given to the phrase "the love of God," one
does not easily realize that a heavenly existence could be worth the longing
that is felt for it, if it were to afford no further scope for the pure and tender
household affections which give to the present life its powerful though
indefinable charm. Yet the recognition of friends in a purely spiritual world
is something of which we can frame no conception whatever. We may look
with unspeakable reverence on the features of wife or child, less because of
their physical beauty than because of the beauty of soul to which they give
expression, but to imagine the perception of soul by soul apart from the
material structure and activities in which soul is manifested, is something
utterly beyond our power. Nay, even when we try to represent to ourselves
the psychical activity of any single soul by itself as continuing without the
aid of the physical machinery of sensation, we get into unmanageable
difficulties. A great part of the contents of our minds consists of sensuous
(chiefly visual) images, and though we may imagine reflection to go on
without further images supplied by vision or hearing, touch or taste or
smell, yet we cannot well see how fresh experiences could be gained in
such a state. The reader, if he require further illustrations, can easily follow
out this line of thought. Enough has no doubt been said to convince him that
our hypothesis of the survival of conscious activity apart from material
conditions is not only utterly unsupported by any evidence that can be
gathered from the world of which we have experience, but is utterly and
hopelessly inconceivable.
It is inconceivable BECAUSE it is entirely without foundation in
experience. Our powers of conception are closely determined by the limits
of our experience. When a proposition, or combination of ideas, is
suggested, for which there has never been any precedent in human
experience, we find it to be UNTHINKABLE,—the ideas will not combine.
The proposition remains one which we may utter and defend, and perhaps
vituperate our neighbours for not accepting, but it remains none the less an

unthinkable proposition. It takes terms which severally have meanings and
puts them together into a phrase which has no meaning. 11 Now when we
try to combine the idea of the continuance of conscious activity with the
idea of the entire cessation of material conditions, and thereby to assert the
existence of a purely spiritual world, we find that we have made an
unthinkable proposition. We may defend our hypothesis as passionately as
we like, but when we strive coolly to realize it in thought we find ourselves
baulked at every step.
But now we have to ask, How much does this inconceivability signify? In
most cases, when we say that a statement is inconceivable, we practically
declare it to be untrue; when we say that a statement is without warrant in
experience, we plainly indicate that we consider it unworthy of our
acceptance. This is legitimate in the majority of cases with which we have
to deal in the course of life, because experience, and the capacities of
thought called out and limited by experience, are our only guides in the
conduct of life. But every one will admit that our experience is not infinite,
and that our capacity of conception is not coextensive with the possibilities
of existence. It is not only possible, but in the very highest degree probable,
that there are many things in heaven, if not on earth, which are undreamed
of in our philosophy. Since our ability to conceive anything is limited by the
extent of our experience, and since human experience is very far from being
infinite, it follows that there may be, and in all probability is, an immense
region of existence in every way as real as the region which we know, yet
concerning which we cannot form the faintest rudiment of a conception.
Any hypothesis relating to such a region of existence is not only not
disproved by the total failure of evidence in its favour, but the total failure
of evidence does not raise even the slightest prima facie presumption
against its validity.
These considerations apply with great force to the hypothesis of an
unseen world in which psychical phenomena persist in the absence of
material conditions. It is true, on the one hand, that we can bring up no
scientific evidence in support of such an hypothesis. But on the other hand
it is equally true that in the very nature of things no such evidence could be
expected to be forthcoming: even were there such evidence in abundance, it
could not be accessible to us. The existence of a single soul, or congeries of
psychical phenomena, unaccompanied by a material body, would be
evidence sufficient to demonstrate the hypothesis. But in the nature of

things, even were there a million such souls round about us, we could not
become aware of the existence of one of them, for we have no organ or
faculty for the perception of soul apart from the material structure and
activities in which it has been manifested throughout the whole course of
our experience. Even our own self-consciousness involves the
consciousness of ourselves as partly material bodies. These considerations
show that our hypothesis is very different from the ordinary hypotheses
with which science deals. The entire absence of testimony does not raise a
negative presumption except in cases where testimony is accessible. In the
hypotheses with which scientific men are occupied, testimony is always
accessible; and if we do not find any, the presumption is raised that there is
none. When Dr. Bastian tells us that he has found living organisms to be
generated in sealed flasks from which all living germs had been excluded,
we demand the evidence for his assertion. The testimony of facts is in this
case hard to elicit, and only skilful reasoners can properly estimate its
worth. But still it is all accessible. With more or less labour it can be got at;
and if we find that Dr. Bastian has produced no evidence save such as may
equally well receive a different interpretation from that which he has given
it, we rightly feel that a strong presumption has been raised against his
hypothesis. It is a case in which we are entitled to expect to find the
favouring facts if there are any, and so long as we do not find such, we are
justified in doubting their existence. So when our authors propound the
hypothesis of an unseen universe consisting of phenomena which occur in
the interstellar ether, or even in some primordial fluid with which the ether
has physical relations, we are entitled to demand their proofs. It is not
enough to tell us that we cannot disprove such a theory. The burden of proof
lies with them. The interstellar ether is something concerning the physical
properties of which we have some knowledge; and surely, if all the things
are going on which they suppose in a medium so closely related to ordinary
matter, there ought to be some traceable indications of the fact. At least,
until the contrary can be shown, we must refuse to believe that all the
testimony in a case like this is utterly inaccessible; and accordingly, so long
as none is found, especially so long as none is even alleged, we feel that a
presumption is raised against their theory.
These illustrations will show, by sheer contrast, how different it is with
the hypothesis of an unseen world that is purely spiritual. The testimony in
such a case must, under the conditions of the present life, be forever

inaccessible. It lies wholly outside the range of experience. However
abundant it may be, we cannot expect to meet with it. And accordingly our
failure to produce it does not raise even the slightest presumption against
our theory. When conceived in this way, the belief in a future life is without
scientific support; but at the same time it is placed beyond the need of
scientific support and beyond the range of scientific criticism. It is a belief
which no imaginable future advance in physical discovery can in any way
impugn. It is a belief which is in no sense irrational, and which may be
logically entertained without in the least affecting our scientific habit of
mind or influencing our scientific conclusions.
To take a brief illustration: we have alluded to the fact that in the history
of our present world the development of mental phenomena has gone on
hand in hand with the development of organic life, while at the same time
we have found it impossible to explain mental phenomena as in any sense
the product of material phenomena. Now there is another side to all this.
The great lesson which Berkeley taught mankind was that what we call
material phenomena are really the products of consciousness co-operating
with some Unknown Power (not material) existing beyond consciousness.
We do very well to speak of "matter" in common parlance, but all that the
word really means is a group of qualities which have no existence apart
from our minds. Modern philosophers have quite generally accepted this
conclusion, and every attempt to overturn Berkeley's reasoning has hitherto
resulted in complete and disastrous failure. In admitting this, we do not
admit the conclusion of Absolute Idealism, that nothing exists outside of
consciousness. What we admit as existing independently of our own
consciousness is the Power that causes in us those conscious states which
we call the perception of material qualities. We have no reason for
regarding this Power as in itself material: indeed, we cannot do so, since by
the theory material qualities have no existence apart from our minds. I have
elsewhere sought to show that less difficulty is involved in regarding this
Power outside of us as quasi-psychical, or in some measure similar to the
mental part of ourselves; and I have gone on to conclude that this Power
may be identical with what men have, in all times and by the aid of various
imperfect symbols, endeavoured to apprehend as Deity. 12 We are thus led
to a view of things not very unlike the views entertained by Spinoza and
Berkeley. We are led to the inference that what we call the material universe
is but the manifestation of infinite Deity to our finite minds. Obviously, on

this view, Matter—the only thing to which materialists concede real
existence—is simply an orderly phantasmagoria; and God and the Soul—
which materialists regard as mere fictions of the imagination—are the only
conceptions that answer to real existences.
In the foregoing paragraph I have been setting down opinions with which
I am prepared to agree, and which are not in conflict with anything that our
study of the development of the objective world has taught us. In so far as
that study may be supposed to bear on the question of a future life, two
conclusions are open to us. First we may say that since the phenomena of
mind appear and run their course along with certain specialized groups of
material phenomena, so, too, they must disappear when these specialized
groups are broken up. Or, in other words, we may say that every living
person is an organized whole; consciousness is something which pertains to
this organized whole, as music belongs to the harp that is entire; but when
the harp is broken it is silent, and when the organized whole of personality
falls to pieces consciousness ceases forever. To many well-disciplined
minds this conclusion seems irresistible; and doubtless it would be a sound
one—a good Baconian conclusion—if we were to admit, with the
materialists, that the possibilities of existence are limited by our tiny and
ephemeral experience.
But now, supposing some Platonic speculator were to come along and
insist upon our leaving room for an alternative conclusion; suppose he were
to urge upon us that all this process of material development, with the
discovery of which our patient study has been rewarded, may be but the
temporary manifestation of relations otherwise unknown between ourselves
and the infinite Deity; suppose he were to argue that psychical qualities may
be inherent in a spiritual substance which under certain conditions becomes
incarnated in matter, to wear it as a perishable garment for a brief season,
but presently to cast it off and enter upon the freedom of a larger existence;
—what reply should we be bound to make, bearing in mind that the
possibilities of existence are in no wise limited by our experience?
Obviously we should be bound to admit that in sound philosophy this
conclusion is just as likely to be true as the other. We should, indeed, warn
him not to call on us to help him to establish it by scientific arguments; and
we should remind him that he must not make illicit use of his extra-
experiential hypotheses by bringing them into the treatment of scientific
questions that lie within the range of experience. In science, for example,

we make no use of the conception of a "spiritual substance" (or of a
"material substance" either), because we can get along sufficiently well by
dealing solely with qualities. But with this general understanding we should
feel bound to concede the impregnableness of his main position.
I have supposed this theory only as an illustration, not as a theory which I
am prepared to adopt. My present purpose is not to treat as an advocate the
question of a future life, but to endeavour to point out what conditions
should be observed in treating the question philosophically. It seems to me
that a great deal is gained when we have distinctly set before us what are
the peculiar conditions of proof in the case of such transcendental
questions. We have gained a great deal when we have learned how
thoroughly impotent, how truly irrelevant, is physical investigation in the
presence of such a question. If we get not much positive satisfaction for our
unquiet yearnings, we occupy at any rate a sounder philosophic position
when we recognize the limits within which our conclusions, whether
positive or negative, are valid.
It seems not improbable that Mr. Mill may have had in mind something
like the foregoing considerations when he suggested that there is no reason
why one should not entertain the belief in a future life if the belief be
necessary to one's spiritual comfort. Perhaps no suggestion in Mr. Mill's
richly suggestive posthumous work has been more generally condemned as
unphilosophical, on the ground that in matters of belief we must be guided,
not by our likes and dislikes, but by the evidence that is accessible. The
objection is certainly a sound one so far as it relates to scientific questions
where evidence is accessible. To hesitate to adopt a well-supported theory
because of some vague preference for a different view is in scientific
matters the one unpardonable sin,—a sin which has been only too often
committed. Even in matters which lie beyond the range of experience,
where evidence is inaccessible, desire is not to be regarded as by itself an
adequate basis for belief. But it seems to me that Mr. Mill showed a deeper
knowledge of the limitations of scientific method than his critics, when he
thus hinted at the possibility of entertaining a belief not amenable to
scientific tests. The hypothesis of a purely spiritual unseen world, as above
described, is entirely removed from the jurisdiction of physical inquiry, and
can only be judged on general considerations of what has been called
"moral probability"; and considerations of this sort are likely, in the future
as in the past, to possess different values for different minds. He who, on

such considerations, entertains a belief in a future life may not demand that
his sceptical neighbour shall be convinced by the same considerations; but
his neighbour is at the same time estopped from stigmatizing his belief as
unphilosophical.
The consideration which must influence most minds in their attitude
toward this question, is the craving, almost universally felt, for some
teleological solution to the problem of existence. Why we are here now is a
question of even profounder interest than whether we are to live hereafter.
Unfortunately its solution carries us no less completely beyond the range of
experience! The belief that all things are working together for some good
end is the most essential expression of religious faith: of all intellectual
propositions it is the one most closely related to that emotional yearning for
a higher and better life which is the sum and substance of religion. Yet all
the treatises on natural theology that have ever been written have barely
succeeded in establishing a low degree of scientific probability for this
belief. In spite of the eight Bridgewater Treatises, and the "Ninth" beside,
dysteleology still holds full half the field as against teleology. Most of this
difficulty, however, results from the crude anthropomorphic views which
theologians have held concerning God. Once admitting that the Divine
attributes may be (as they must be) incommensurably greater than human
attributes, our faith that all things are working together for good may
remain unimpugned.
To many minds such a faith will seem incompatible with belief in the
ultimate destruction of sentiency amid the general doom of the material
universe. A good end can have no meaning to us save in relation to
consciousness that distinguishes and knows the good from the evil. There
could be no better illustration of how we are hemmed in than the very
inadequacy of the words with which we try to discuss this subject. Such
words have all gained their meanings from human experience, and hence of
necessity carry anthropomorphic implications. But we cannot help this. We
must think with the symbols with which experience has furnished us; and
when we so think, there does seem to be little that is even intellectually
satisfying in the awful picture which science shows us, of giant worlds
concentrating out of nebulous vapour, developing with prodigious waste of
energy into theatres of all that is grand and sacred in spiritual endeavour,
clashing and exploding again into dead vapour-balls, only to renew the
same toilful process without end,—a senseless bubble-play of Titan forces,

with life, love, and aspiration brought forth only to be extinguished. The
human mind, however "scientific" its training, must often recoil from the
conclusion that this is all; and there are moments when one passionately
feels that this cannot be all. On warm June mornings in green country lanes,
with sweet pine-odours wafted in the breeze which sighs through the
branches, and cloud-shadows flitting over far-off blue mountains, while
little birds sing their love-songs, and golden-haired children weave garlands
of wild roses; or when in the solemn twilight we listen to wondrous
harmonies of Beethoven and Chopin that stir the heart like voices from an
unseen world; at such times one feels that the profoundest answer which
science can give to our questionings is but a superficial answer after all. At
these moments, when the world seems fullest of beauty, one feels most
strongly that it is but the harbinger of something else,—that the ceaseless
play of phenomena is no mere sport of Titans, but an orderly scene, with its
reason for existing, its

"One divine far-off event
To which the whole creation moves."

Difficult as it is to disentangle the elements of reasoning that enter into
these complex groups of feeling, one may still see, I think, that it is
speculative interest in the world, rather than anxious interest in self, that
predominates. The desire for immortality in its lowest phase is merely the
outcome of the repugnance we feel toward thinking of the final cessation of
vigorous vital activity. Such a feeling is naturally strong with healthy
people. But in the mood which I have above tried to depict, this feeling, or
any other which is merely self-regarding, is lost sight of in the feeling
which associates a future life with some solution of the burdensome
problem of existence. Had we but faith enough to lighten the burden of this
problem, the inferior question would perhaps be less absorbing. Could we
but know that our present lives are working together toward some good end,
even an end in no wise anthropomorphic, it would be of less consequence
whether we were individually to endure. To the dog under the knife of the
experimenter, the world is a world of pure evil; yet could the poor beast but
understand the alleviation of human suffering to which he is contributing,
he would be forced to own that this is not quite true; and if he were also a
heroic or Christian dog, the thought would perhaps take away from death its
sting. The analogy may be a crude one; but the reasonableness of the

universe is at least as far above our comprehension as the purposes of man
surpass the understanding of the dog. Believing, however, though as a
simple act of trust, that the end will crown the work, we may rise superior
to the question which has here concerned us, and exclaim, in the supreme
language of faith, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him!"

July, 1875.

II. "THE TO-MORROW OF DEATH."
Few of those who find pleasure in frequenting bookstores can have failed
to come across one or more of the profusely illustrated volumes in which
M. Louis Figuier has sought to render dry science entertaining to the
multitude. And of those who may have casually turned over their pages,
there are probably none, competent to form an opinion, who have not
speedily perceived that these pretentious books belong to the class of pests
and unmitigated nuisances in literature. Antiquated views, utter lack of
comprehension of the subjects treated, and shameless unscrupulousness as
to accuracy of statement, are faults but ill atoned for by sensational pictures
of the "dragons of the prime that tare each other in their slime," or of the
Newton-like brow and silken curls of that primitive man in contrast with
whom the said dragons have been likened to "mellow music."
Nevertheless, the sort of scientific reputation which these discreditable
performances have gained for M. Figuier among an uncritical public is such
as to justify us in devoting a few paragraphs to a book 13 which, on its own
merits, is unworthy of any notice whatever. "The To-morrow of Death"—if
one were to put his trust in the translator's prefatory note—discusses a grave
question upon "purely scientific methods." We are glad to see this remark,
because it shows what notions may be entertained by persons of average
intelligence with reference to "scientific methods." Those—and they are
many—who vaguely think that science is something different from
common-sense, and that any book is scientific which talks about perihelia
and asymptotes and cetacea, will find their vague notions here well
corroborated. Quite different will be the impression made upon those—and
they are yet too few—who have learned that the method of science is the
common-sense method of cautiously weighing evidence and withholding
judgment where evidence is not forthcoming. If talking about remote and
difficult subjects suffice to make one scientific, then is M. Figuier scientific
to a quite terrible degree. He writes about the starry heavens as if he had
been present at the hour of creation, or had at least accompanied the
Arabian prophet on his famous night-journey. Nor is his knowledge of
physiology and other abstruse sciences at all less remarkable. But these

things will cease to surprise us when we learn the sources, hitherto
suspected only in mythology, from which favoured mortals can obtain a
knowledge of what is going on outside of our planet.
The four inner planets being nearly alike in size (?) and in length of day,
M. Figuier infers, by strictly scientific methods, that whatever is true of one
of them, as our earth, will be true of the others (p. 34). Hence, they are all
inhabited by human beings. It is true that human beings must find Venus
rather warm, and are not unlikely to be seriously incommoded by the
tropical climate of Mercury. But we must remember that "the men of Venus
and Mercury are made by nature to resist heat, as those of Jupiter and
Saturn are made to endure cold, and those of the Earth and Mars to live in a
mean temperature: OTHERWISE THEY COULD NOT EXIST" (p. 72). In
view of this charming specimen of a truly scientific inference, it is almost
too bad to call attention to the fact that M. Figuier is quite behind the age in
his statement of facts. So far from Jupiter and Saturn being cold,
observation plainly indicates that they are prodigiously hot, if not even
incandescent and partly self-luminous; the explanation being that, by reason
of their huge bulk, they still retain much of the primitive heat which smaller
planets have more quickly radiated away. As for M. Figuier's statement, that
polar snows have been witnessed on these planets, it is simply untrue; no
such thing has ever been seen there. Mars, on the other hand, has been
observed to resemble in many important respects its near neighbour, the
Earth; whence our author declares that if an aeronaut were to shoot clear of
terrestrial gravitation and land upon Mars, he would unquestionably
suppose himself to be still upon the earth. For aerolites, it seems, are
somehow fired down upon our planet both from Mars and from Venus; and
aerolites sometimes contain vegetable matter (?). Therefore, Mars has a
vegetation, and very likely its red colour is caused by its luxuriant autumnal
foliage! (p. 47.) To return to Jupiter: this planet, indeed, has inconveniently
short days. "In his 'Picture of the Heavens,' the German astronomer, Littrow
(these Germans think of nothing but gormandizing), asks how the people of
Jupiter order their meals in the short interval of five hours." Nevertheless,
says our author, the great planet is compensated for this inconvenience by
its equable and delicious climate.
In view, however, of our author's more striking and original disclosures,
one would suppose that all this discussion of the physical conditions of
existence on the various planets might have been passed over without

detriment to the argument. After these efforts at proving (for M. Figuier
presumably regards this rigmarole as proof) that all the members of our
solar system are habitable, the interplanetary ether is forthwith peopled
thickly with "souls," without any resort to argument. This, we suppose, is
one of those scientific truths which as M. Figuier tells us, precede and
underlie demonstration. Upon this impregnable basis is reared the scientific
theory of a future life. When we die our soul passes into some other
terrestrial body, unless we have been very good, in which case we at once
soar aloft and join the noble fraternity of the ether-folk. Bad men and young
children, on dying, must undergo renewed probation here below, but
ultimately all pass away into the interplanetary ether. The dweller in ether is
chiefly distinguished from the mundane mortal by his acute senses and his
ability to subsist without food. He can see as if through a telescope and
microscope combined. His intelligence is so great that in comparison an
Aristotle would seem idiotic. It should not be forgotten, too, that he
possesses eighty-five per cent of soul to fifteen per cent of body, whereas in
terrestrial man the two elements are mixed in equal proportions. There is no
sex among the ether-folk, their numbers being kept up by the influx of souls
from the various planets. "Alimentation, that necessity which tyrannizes
over men and animals, is not imposed upon the inhabitants of ether. Their
bodies must be repaired and sustained by the simple respiration of the fluid
in which they are immersed, that is, of ether." Most likely, continues our
scientific author, the physiological functions of the ether-folk are confined
to respiration, and that it is possible to breathe "without numerous organs is
proved by the fact that in all of a whole class of animals—the batrachians—
the mere bare skin constitutes the whole machinery of respiration" (p. 95).
Allowing for the unfortunate slip of the pen by which "batrachians" are
substituted for "fresh-water polyps," how can we fail to admire the severity
of the scientific method employed in reaching these interesting
conclusions?
But the King of Serendib must die, nor will the relentless scythe of Time
spare our Etherians, with all their exalted attributes. They will die
repeatedly; and after having through sundry periods of probation attained
spiritual perfection, they will all pour into the sun. Since it is the sun which
originates life and feeling and thought upon the surface of our earth, "why
may we not declare that the rays transmitted by the sun to the earth and the
other planets are nothing more nor less than the emanations of these souls?"

And now we may begin to form an adequate conception, of the rigorously
scientific character of our author's method. There have been many
hypotheses by which to account for the supply of solar radiance. One of the
most ingenious and probable of these hypotheses is that of Helmholtz,
according to which the solar radiance is due to the arrested motion of the
sun's constituent particles toward their common centre of gravity. But this is
too fanciful to satisfy M. Figuier. The speculations of Helmholtz "have the
disadvantage of resting on the idea of the sun's nebulosity,—an hypothesis
which would need to be more closely examined before serving as a basis for
so important a deduction." Accordingly, M. Figuier propounds an
explanation which possesses the signal advantage that there is nothing
hypothetical in it. "In our opinion, the solar radiation is sustained by the
continual influx of souls into the sun." This, as the reader will perceive, is
the well-known theory of Mayer, that the solar heat is due to a perennial
bombardment of the sun by meteors, save that, in place of gross
materialistic meteors, M. Figuier puts ethereal souls. The ether-folk are
daily raining into the solar orb in untold millions, and to the unceasing
concussion is due the radiation which maintains life in the planets, and thus
the circle is complete.
In spite of their exalted position, the ether-folk do not disdain to mingle
with the affairs of terrestrial mortals. They give us counsel in dreams, and it
is from this source, we presume, that our author has derived his rigid
notions as to scientific method. In evidence of this dream-theory we have
the usual array of cases, "a celebrated journalist, M. R——," "M. L——, a
lawyer," etc., etc., as in most books of this kind.
M. Figuier is not a Darwinian: the derivation of our bodies from the
bodies of apes is a conception too grossly materialistic for him. Our souls,
however, he is quite willing to derive from the souls of lower animals.
Obviously we have pre-existed; how are we to account for Mozart's
precocity save by supposing his pre-existence? He brought with him the
musical skill acquired in a previous life. In general, the souls of musical
children come from nightingales, while the souls of great architects have
passed into them from beavers (p. 247). We do not remember these past
existences, it is true; but when we become ether-folk, we shall be able to
look back in recollection over the whole series.

Amid these sublime inquiries, M. Figuier is sometimes notably oblivious
of humbler truths, as might indeed be expected. Thus he repeatedly alludes
to Locke as the author of the doctrine of innate ideas (!!), 14 and he informs
us that Kepler never quitted Protestant England (p. 336), though we believe
that the nearest Kepler ever came to living in England was the refusing of
Sir Henry Wotton's request that he should move thither.
And lastly, we are treated to a real dialogue, with quite a dramatic mise
en scene. The author's imaginary friend, Theophilus, enters, "seats himself
in a comfortable chair, places an ottoman under his feet, a book under his
elbow to support it, and a cigarette of Turkish tobacco between his lips, and
sets himself to the task of listening with a grave air of collectedness,
relieved by a certain touch of suspicious severity, as becomes the arbiter in
a literary and philosophic matter." "And so," begins our author, "you wish
to know, my dear Theophilus, WHERE I LOCATE GOD? I locate him in
the centre of the universe, or, in better phrase, at the central focus, which
must exist somewhere, of all the stars that make the universe, and which,
borne onward in a common movement, gravitate together around this
focus."
Much more, of an equally scientific character, follows; but in fairness to
the reader, who is already blaming us for wasting the precious moments
over such sorry trash, we may as well conclude our sketch of this new line
of speculation.

May, 1872.

III. THE JESUS OF HISTORY. 15
Vie de Jesus, par Ernest Renan. Paris, 1867. (Thirteenth edition, revised
and partly rewritten.)
In republishing this and the following article on "The Christ of Dogma," I
am aware that they do but scanty justice to their very interesting subjects.
So much ground is covered that it would be impossible to treat it
satisfactorily in a pair of review-articles; and in particular the views adopted
with regard to the New Testament literature are rather indicated than
justified. These defects I hope to remedy in a future work on "Jesus of
Nazareth, and the Founding of Christianity," for which the present articles
must be regarded as furnishing only a few introductory hints. This work has
been for several years on my mind, but as it may still be long before I can
find the leisure needful for writing it out, it seemed best to republish these
preliminary sketches which have been some time out of print. The projected
work, however, while covering all the points here treated, will have a much
wider scope, dealing on the one hand with the natural genesis of the
complex aggregate of beliefs and aspirations known as Christianity, and on
the other hand with the metamorphoses which are being wrought in this
aggregate by modern knowledge and modern theories of the world.
The views adopted in the present essay as to the date of the Synoptic
Gospels may seem over-conservative to those who accept the ably-argued
conclusions of "Supernatural Religion." Quite possibly in a more detailed
discussion these briefly-indicated data may require revision; but for the
present it seems best to let the article stand as it was written. The author of
"Supernatural Religion" would no doubt admit that, even if the synoptic
gospels had not assumed their present form before the end of the second
century, nevertheless the body of tradition contained in them had been
committed to writing very early in that century. So much appears to be
proved by the very variations of text upon which his argument relies. And if
this be granted, the value of the synoptics as HISTORICAL evidence is not
materially altered. With their value as testimony to so-called
SUPERNATURAL events, the present essay is in no way concerned.

Of all the great founders of religions, Jesus is at once the best known and
the least known to the modern scholar. From the dogmatic point of view he
is the best known, from the historic point of view he is the least known. The
Christ of dogma is in every lineament familiar to us from early childhood;
but concerning the Jesus of history we possess but few facts resting upon
trustworthy evidence, and in order to form a picture of him at once
consistent, probable, and distinct in its outlines, it is necessary to enter upon
a long and difficult investigation, in the course of which some of the most
delicate apparatus of modern criticism is required. This circumstance is
sufficiently singular to require especial explanation. The case of
Sakyamuni, the founder of Buddhism, which may perhaps be cited as
parallel, is in reality wholly different. Not only did Sakyamuni live five
centuries earlier than Jesus, among a people that have at no time possessed
the art of insuring authenticity in their records of events, and at an era
which is at best but dimly discerned through the mists of fable and legend,
but the work which he achieved lies wholly out of the course of European
history, and it is only in recent times that his career has presented itself to us
as a problem needing to be solved. Jesus, on the other hand, appeared in an
age which is familiarly and in many respects minutely known to us, and
among a people whose fortunes we can trace with historic certainty for at
least seven centuries previous to his birth; while his life and achievements
have probably had a larger share in directing the entire subsequent
intellectual and moral development of Europe than those of any other man
who has ever lived. Nevertheless, the details of his personal career are
shrouded in an obscurity almost as dense as that which envelops the life of
the remote founder of Buddhism.
This phenomenon, however, appears less strange and paradoxical when
we come to examine it more closely. A little reflection will disclose to us
several good reasons why the historical records of the life of Jesus should
be so scanty as they are. In the first place, the activity of Jesus was private
rather than public. Confined within exceedingly narrow limits, both of
space and of duration, it made no impression whatever upon the politics or
the literature of the time. His name does not occur in the pages of any
contemporary writer, Roman, Greek, or Jewish. Doubtless the case would
have been wholly different, had he, like Mohammed, lived to a ripe age,
and had the exigencies of his peculiar position as the Messiah of the Jewish
people brought him into relations with the Empire; though whether, in such

case, the success of his grand undertaking would have been as complete as
it has actually been, may well be doubted.
Secondly, Jesus did not, like Mohammed and Paul, leave behind him
authentic writings which might serve to throw light upon his mental
development as well as upon the external facts of his career. Without the
Koran and the four genuine Epistles of Paul, we should be nearly as much
in the dark concerning these great men as we now are concerning the
historical Jesus. We should be compelled to rely, in the one case, upon the
untrustworthy gossip of Mussulman chroniclers, and in the other case upon
the garbled statements of the "Acts of the Apostles," a book written with a
distinct dogmatic purpose, sixty or seventy years after the occurrence of the
events which it professes to record.
It is true, many of the words of Jesus, preserved by hearsay tradition
through the generation immediately succeeding his death, have come down
to us, probably with little alteration, in the pages of the three earlier
evangelists. These are priceless data, since, as we shall see, they are almost
the only materials at our command for forming even a partial conception of
the character of Jesus' work. Nevertheless, even here the cautious inquirer
has only too often to pause in face of the difficulty of distinguishing the
authentic utterances of the great teacher from the later interpolations
suggested by the dogmatic necessities of the narrators. Bitterly must the
historian regret that Jesus had no philosophic disciple, like Xenophon, to
record his Memorabilia. Of the various writings included in the New
Testament, the Apocalypse alone (and possibly the Epistle of Jude) is from
the pen of a personal acquaintance of Jesus; and besides this, the four
epistles of Paul, to the Galatians, Corinthians, and Romans, make up the
sum of the writings from which we may expect contemporary testimony.
Yet from these we obtain absolutely nothing of that for which we are
seeking. The brief writings of Paul are occupied exclusively with the
internal significance of Jesus' work. The epistle of Jude—if it be really
written by Jesus' brother of that name, which is doubtful—is solely a
polemic directed against the innovations of Paul. And the Apocalypse, the
work of the fiery and imaginative disciple John, is confined to a prophetic
description of the Messiah's anticipated return, and tells us nothing
concerning the deeds of that Messiah while on the earth.

Here we touch upon our third consideration,—the consideration which
best enables us to see why the historic notices of Jesus are so meagre.
Rightly considered, the statement with which we opened this article is its
own explanation. The Jesus of history is so little known just because the
Christ of dogma is so well known. 16 Other teachers—Paul, Mohammed,
Sakyamuni—have come merely as preachers of righteousness, speaking in
the name of general principles with which their own personalities were not
directly implicated. But Jesus, as we shall see, before the close of his life,
proclaimed himself to be something more than a preacher of righteousness.
He announced himself—and justly, from his own point of view—as the
long-expected Messiah sent by Jehovah to liberate the Jewish race. Thus the
success of his religious teachings became at once implicated with the
question of his personal nature and character. After the sudden and violent
termination of his career, it immediately became all-important with his
followers to prove that he was really the Messiah, and to insist upon the
certainty of his speedy return to the earth. Thus the first generation of
disciples dogmatized about him, instead of narrating his life,—a task which
to them would have seemed of little profit. For them the all-absorbing
object of contemplation was the immediate future rather than the immediate
past. As all the earlier Christian literature informs us, for nearly a century
after the death of Jesus, his followers lived in daily anticipation of his
triumphant return to the earth. The end of all things being so near at hand,
no attempt was made to insure accurate and complete memoirs for the use
of a posterity which was destined, in Christian imagination, never to arrive.
The first Christians wrote but little; even Papias, at the end of a century,
preferring second-hand or third-hand oral tradition to the written gospels
which were then beginning to come into circulation. 17 Memoirs of the life
and teachings of Jesus were called forth by the necessity of having a written
standard of doctrine to which to appeal amid the growing differences of
opinion which disturbed the Church. Thus the earlier gospels exhibit,
though in different degrees, the indications of a modifying, sometimes of an
overruling dogmatic purpose. There is, indeed, no conscious violation of
historic truth, but from the varied mass of material supplied by tradition,
such incidents are selected as are fit to support the views of the writers
concerning the personality of Jesus. Accordingly, while the early gospels
throw a strong light upon the state of Christian opinion at the dates when
they were successively composed, the information which they give

concerning Jesus himself is, for that very reason, often vague, uncritical,
and contradictory. Still more is this true of the fourth gospel, written late in
the second century, in which historic tradition is moulded in the interests of
dogma until it becomes no longer recognizable, and in the place of the
human Messiah of the earlier accounts, we have a semi-divine Logos or
Aeon, detached from God, and incarnate for a brief season in the likeness of
man.
Not only was history subordinated to dogma by the writers of the gospel-
narratives, but in the minds of the Fathers of the Church who assisted in
determining what writings should be considered canonical, dogmatic
prepossession went very much further than critical acumen. Nor is this
strange when we reflect that critical discrimination in questions of literary
authenticity is one of the latest acquisitions of the cultivated human mind.
In the early ages of the Church the evidence of the genuineness of any
literary production was never weighed critically; writings containing
doctrines acceptable to the majority of Christians were quoted as
authoritative while writings which supplied no dogmatic want were
overlooked, or perhaps condemned as apocryphal. A striking instance of
this is furnished by the fortunes of the Apocalypse. Although perhaps the
best authenticated work in the New Testament collection, its millenarian
doctrines caused it to become unpopular as the Church gradually ceased to
look for the speedy return of the Messiah, and, accordingly, as the canon
assumed a definite shape, it was placed among the "Antilegomena," or
doubtful books, and continued to hold a precarious position until after the
time of the Protestant Reformation. On the other hand, the fourth gospel,
which was quite unknown and probably did not exist at the time of the
Quartodeciman controversy (A. D. 168), was accepted with little hesitation,
and at the beginning of the third century is mentioned by Irenaeus, Clement,
and Tertullian, as the work of the Apostle John. To this uncritical spirit,
leading to the neglect of such books as failed to answer the dogmatic
requirements of the Church, may probably be attributed the loss of so many
of the earlier gospels. It is doubtless for this reason that we do not possess
the Aramaean original of the "Logia" of Matthew, or the "Memorabilia" of
Mark, the companion of Peter,—two works to which Papias (A. D. 120)
alludes as containing authentic reports of the utterances of Jesus.
These considerations will, we believe, sufficiently explain the curious
circumstance that, while we know the Christ of dogma so intimately, we

know the Jesus of history so slightly. The literature of early Christianity
enables us to trace with tolerable completeness the progress of opinion
concerning the nature of Jesus, from the time of Paul's early missions to the
time of the Nicene Council; but upon the actual words and deeds of Jesus it
throws a very unsteady light. The dogmatic purpose everywhere obscures
the historic basis.
This same dogmatic prepossession which has rendered the data for a
biography of Jesus so scanty and untrustworthy, has also until
comparatively recent times prevented any unbiassed critical examination of
such data as we actually possess. Previous to the eighteenth century any
attempt to deal with the life of Jesus upon purely historical methods would
have been not only contemned as irrational, but stigmatized as impious.
And even in the eighteenth century, those writers who had become wholly
emancipated from ecclesiastic tradition were so destitute of all historic
sympathy and so unskilled in scientific methods of criticism, that they
utterly failed to comprehend the requirements of the problem. Their aims
were in the main polemic, not historical. They thought more of
overthrowing current dogmas than of impartially examining the earliest
Christian literature with a view of eliciting its historic contents; and,
accordingly, they accomplished but little. Two brilliant exceptions must,
however, be noticed. Spinoza, in the seventeenth century, and Lessing, in
the eighteenth, were men far in advance of their age. They are the fathers of
modern historical criticism; and to Lessing in particular, with his enormous
erudition and incomparable sagacity, belongs the honour of initiating that
method of inquiry which, in the hands of the so-called Tubingen School,
has led to such striking and valuable conclusions concerning, the age and
character of all the New Testament literature. But it was long before any
one could be found fit to bend the bow which Lessing and Spinoza had
wielded. A succession of able scholars—Semler, Eichhorn, Paulus,
Schleiermacher Bretschneider, and De Wette—were required to examine,
with German patience and accuracy, the details of the subject, and to
propound various untenable hypotheses, before such a work could be
performed as that of Strauss. The "Life of Jesus," published by Strauss
when only twenty-six years of age, is one of the monumental works of the
nineteenth century, worthy to rank, as a historical effort, along with such
books as Niebuhr's "History of Rome," Wolf's "Prolegomena," or Bentley's
"Dissertations on Phalaris." It instantly superseded and rendered antiquated

everything which had preceded it; nor has any work on early Christianity
been written in Germany for the past thirty years which has not been
dominated by the recollection of that marvellous book. Nevertheless, the
labours of another generation of scholars have carried our knowledge of the
New Testament literature far beyond the point which it had reached when
Strauss first wrote. At that time the dates of but few of the New Testament
writings had been fixed with any approach to certainty; the age and
character of the fourth gospel, the genuineness of the Pauline epistles, even
the mutual relations of the three synoptics, were still undetermined; and, as
a natural result of this uncertainty, the progress of dogma during the first
century was ill understood. At the present day it is impossible to read the
early work of Strauss without being impressed with the necessity of
obtaining positive data as to the origin and dogmatic character of the New
Testament writings, before attempting to reach any conclusions as to the
probable career of Jesus. These positive data we owe to the genius and
diligence of the Tubingen School, and, above all, to its founder, Ferdinand
Christian Baur. Beginning with the epistles of Paul, of which he
distinguished four as genuine, Baur gradually worked his way through the
entire New Testament collection, detecting—with that inspired insight
which only unflinching diligence can impart to original genius—the age at
which each book was written, and the circumstances which called it forth.
To give any account of Baur's detailed conclusions, or of the method by
which he reached them, would require a volume. They are very scantily
presented in Mr. Mackay's work on the "Tubingen School and its
Antecedents," to which we may refer the reader desirous of further
information. We can here merely say that twenty years of energetic
controversy have only served to establish most of Baur's leading
conclusions more firmly than ever. The priority of the so-called gospel of
Matthew, the Pauline purpose of "Luke," the second in date of our gospels,
the derivative and second-hand character of "Mark," and the unapostolic
origin of the fourth gospel, are points which may for the future be regarded
as wellnigh established by circumstantial evidence. So with respect to the
pseudo-Pauline epistles, Baur's work was done so thoroughly that the only
question still left open for much discussion is that concerning the date and
authorship of the first and second "Thessalonians,"—a point of quite
inferior importance, so far as our present subject is concerned. Seldom have
such vast results been achieved by the labour of a single scholar. Seldom

has any historical critic possessed such a combination of analytic and of co-
ordinating powers as Baur. His keen criticism and his wonderful flashes of
insight exercise upon the reader a truly poetic effect like that which is felt in
contemplating the marvels of physical discovery.
The comprehensive labours of Baur were followed up by Zeller's able
work on the "Acts of the Apostles," in which that book was shown to have
been partly founded upon documents written by Luke, or some other
companion of Paul, and expanded and modified by a much later writer with
the purpose of covering up the traces of the early schism between the
Pauline and the Petrine sections of the Church. Along with this, Schwegler's
work on the "Post-Apostolic Times" deserves mention as clearing up many
obscure points relating to the early development of dogma. Finally, the
"New Life of Jesus," by Strauss, adopting and utilizing the principal
discoveries of Baur and his followers, and combining all into one grand
historical picture, worthily completes the task which the earlier work of the
same author had inaugurated.
The reader will have noticed that, with the exception of Spinoza, every
one of the names above cited in connection with the literary analysis and
criticism of the New Testament is the name of a German. Until within the
last decade, Germany has indeed possessed almost an absolute monopoly of
the science of Biblical criticism; other countries having remained not only
unfamiliar with its methods, but even grossly ignorant of its conspicuous
results, save when some German treatise of more than ordinary popularity
has now and then been translated. But during the past ten years France has
entered the lists; and the writings of Reville, Reuss, Nicolas, D'Eichthal,
Scherer, and Colani testify to the rapidity with which the German seed has
fructified upon her soil. 18
None of these books, however, has achieved such wide-spread celebrity,
or done so much toward interesting the general public in this class of
historical inquiries, as the "Life of Jesus," by Renan. This pre-eminence of
fame is partly, but not wholly, deserved. From a purely literary point of
view, Renan's work doubtless merits all the celebrity it has gained. Its
author writes a style such as is perhaps surpassed by that of no other living
Frenchman. It is by far the most readable book which has ever been written
concerning the life of Jesus. And no doubt some of its popularity is due to
its very faults, which, from a critical point of view, are neither few nor

small. For Renan is certainly very faulty, as a historical critic, when he
practically ignores the extreme meagreness of our positive knowledge of
the career of Jesus, and describes scene after scene in his life as minutely
and with as much confidence as if he had himself been present to witness it
all. Again and again the critical reader feels prompted to ask, How do you
know all this? or why, out of two or three conflicting accounts, do you
quietly adopt some particular one, as if its superior authority were self-
evident? But in the eye of the uncritical reader, these defects are
excellences; for it is unpleasant to be kept in ignorance when we are
seeking after definite knowledge, and it is disheartening to read page after
page of an elaborate discussion which ends in convincing us that definite
knowledge cannot be gained.
In the thirteenth edition of the "Vie de Jesus," Renan has corrected some
of the most striking errors of the original work, and in particular has, with
praiseworthy candour, abandoned his untenable position with regard to the
age and character of the fourth gospel. As is well known, Renan, in his
earlier editions, ascribed to this gospel a historical value superior to that of
the synoptics, believing it to have been written by an eyewitness of the
events which it relates; and from this source, accordingly, he drew the larger
share of his materials. Now, if there is any one conclusion concerning the
New Testament literature which must be regarded as incontrovertibly
established by the labours of a whole generation of scholars, it is this, that
the fourth gospel was utterly unknown until about A. D. 170, that it was
written by some one who possessed very little direct knowledge of
Palestine, that its purpose was rather to expound a dogma than to give an
accurate record of events, and that as a guide to the comprehension of the
career of Jesus it is of far less value than the three synoptic gospels. It is
impossible, in a brief review like the present, to epitomize the evidence
upon which this conclusion rests, which may more profitably be sought in
the Rev. J. J. Tayler's work on "The Fourth Gospel," or in Davidson's
"Introduction to the New Testament." It must suffice to mention that this
gospel is not cited by Papias; that Justin, Marcion, and Valentinus make no
allusion to it, though, since it furnishes so much that is germane to their
views, they would gladly have appealed to it, had it been in existence, when
those views were as yet under discussion; and that, finally, in the great
Quartodeciman controversy, A. D. 168, the gospel is not only not
mentioned, but the authority of John is cited by Polycarp in flat

contradiction of the view afterwards taken by this evangelist. Still more, the
assumption of Renan led at once into complicated difficulties with reference
to the Apocalypse. The fourth gospel, if it does not unmistakably announce
itself as the work of John, at least professes to be Johannine; and it cannot
for a moment be supposed that such a book, making such claims, could
have gained currency during John's lifetime without calling forth his
indignant protest. For, in reality, no book in the New Testament collection
would so completely have shocked the prejudices of the Johannine party.
John's own views are well known to us from the Apocalypse. John was the
most enthusiastic of millenarians and the most narrow and rigid of
Judaizers. In his antagonism to the Pauline innovations he went farther than
Peter himself. Intense hatred of Paul and his followers appears in several
passages of the Apocalypse, where they are stigmatized as "Nicolaitans,"
"deceivers of the people," "those who say they are apostles and are not,"
"eaters of meat offered to idols," "fornicators," "pretended Jews," "liars,"
"synagogue of Satan," etc. (Chap. II.). On the other hand, the fourth gospel
contains nothing millenarian or Judaical; it carries Pauline universalism to a
far greater extent than Paul himself ventured to carry it, even condemning
the Jews as children of darkness, and by implication contrasting them
unfavourably with the Gentiles; and it contains a theory of the nature of
Jesus which the Ebionitish Christians, to whom John belonged, rejected to
the last.
In his present edition Renan admits the insuperable force of these
objections, and abandons his theory of the apostolic origin of the fourth
gospel. And as this has necessitated the omission or alteration of all such
passages as rested upon the authority of that gospel, the book is to a
considerable extent rewritten, and the changes are such as greatly to
increase its value as a history of Jesus. Nevertheless, the author has so long
been in the habit of shaping his conceptions of the career of Jesus by the aid
of the fourth gospel, that it has become very difficult for him to pass freely
to another point of view. He still clings to the hypothesis that there is an
element of historic tradition contained in the book, drawn from memorial
writings which had perhaps been handed down from John, and which were
inaccessible to the synoptists. In a very interesting appendix, he collects the
evidence in favour of this hypothesis, which indeed is not without
plausibility, since there is every reason for supposing that the gospel was
written at Ephesus, which a century before had been John's place of

residence. But even granting most of Renan's assumptions, it must still
follow that the authority of this gospel is far inferior to that of the synoptics,
and can in no case be very confidently appealed to. The question is one of
the first importance to the historian of early Christianity. In inquiring into
the life of Jesus, the very first thing to do is to establish firmly in the mind
the true relations of the fourth gospel to the first three. Until this has been
done, no one is competent to write on the subject; and it is because he has
done this so imperfectly, that Renan's work is, from a critical point of view,
so imperfectly successful.
The anonymous work entitled "The Jesus of History," which we have
placed at the head of this article, is in every respect noteworthy as the first
systematic attempt made in England to follow in the footsteps of German
criticism in writing a life of Jesus. We know of no good reason why the
book should be published anonymously; for as a historical essay it
possesses extraordinary merit, and does great credit not only to its author,
but to English scholarship and acumen. 19 It is not, indeed, a book
calculated to captivate the imagination of the reading public. Though
written in a clear, forcible, and often elegant style, it possesses no such
wonderful rhetorical charm as the work of Renan; and it will probably
never find half a dozen readers where the "Vie de Jesus" has found a
hundred. But the success of a book of this sort is not to be measured by its
rhetorical excellence, or by its adaptation to the literary tastes of an
uncritical and uninstructed public, but rather by the amount of critical
sagacity which it brings to bear upon the elucidation of the many difficult
and disputed points in the subject of which it treats. Measured by this
standard, "The Jesus of History" must rank very high indeed. To say that it
throws more light upon the career of Jesus than any work which has ever
before been written in English would be very inadequate praise, since the
English language has been singularly deficient in this branch of historical
literature. We shall convey a more just idea of its merits if we say that it will
bear comparison with anything which even Germany has produced, save
only the works of Strauss, Baur, and Zeller.
The fitness of our author for the task which he has undertaken is shown
at the outset by his choice of materials. In basing his conclusions almost
exclusively upon the statements contained in the first gospel, he is upheld
by every sound principle of criticism. The times and places at which our
three synoptic gospels were written have been, through the labours of the

Tubingen critics, determined almost to a certainty. Of the three, "Mark" is
unquestionably the latest; with the exception of about twenty verses, it is
entirely made up from "Matthew" and "Luke," the diverse Petrine and
Pauline tendencies of which it strives to neutralize in conformity to the
conciliatory disposition of the Church at Rome, at the epoch at which this
gospel was written, about A. D. 130. The third gospel was also written at
Rome, some fifteen years earlier. In the preface, its author describes it as a
compilation from previously existing written materials. Among these
materials was certainly the first gospel, several passages of which are
adopted word for word by the author of "Luke." Yet the narrative varies
materially from that of the first gospel in many essential points. The
arrangement of events is less natural, and, as in the "Acts of the Apostles,"
by the same author, there is apparent throughout the design of suppressing
the old discord between Paul and the Judaizing disciples, and of
representing Christianity as essentially Pauline from the outset. How far
Paul was correct in his interpretation of the teachings of Jesus, it is difficult
to decide. It is, no doubt, possible that the first gospel may have lent to the
words of Jesus an Ebionite colouring in some instances, and that now and
then the third gospel may present us with a truer account. To this supremely
important point we shall by and by return. For the present it must suffice to
observe that the evidences of an overruling dogmatic purpose are generally
much more conspicuous in the third synoptist than in the first; and that the
very loose manner in which this writer has handled his materials in the
"Acts" is not calculated to inspire us with confidence in the historical
accuracy of his gospel. The writer who, in spite of the direct testimony of
Paul himself could represent the apostle to the Gentiles as acting under the
direction of the disciples at Jerusalem, and who puts Pauline sentiments into
the mouth of Peter, would certainly have been capable of unwarrantably
giving a Pauline turn to the teachings of Jesus himself. We are therefore, as
a last resort, brought back to the first gospel, which we find to possess, as a
historical narrative, far stronger claims upon our attention than the second
and third. In all probability it had assumed nearly its present shape before
A. D. 100, its origin is unmistakably Palestinian; it betrays comparatively
few indications of dogmatic purpose; and there are strong reasons for
believing that the speeches of Jesus recorded in it are in substance taken
from the genuine "Logia" of Matthew mentioned by Papias, which must
have been written as early as A. D. 60-70, before the destruction of

Jerusalem. Indeed, we are inclined to agree with our author that the gospel,
even in its present shape (save only a few interpolated passages), may have
existed as early as A. D. 80, since it places the time of Jesus' second coming
immediately after the destruction of Jerusalem; whereas the third
evangelist, who wrote forty-five years after that event, is careful to tell us,
"The end is NOT immediately." Moreover, it must have been written while
the Paulo-Petrine controversy was still raging, as is shown by the parable of
the "enemy who sowed the tares," which manifestly refers to Paul, and also
by the allusions to "false prophets" (vii. 15), to those who say "Lord, Lord,"
and who "cast out demons in the name of the Lord" (vii. 21-23), teaching
men to break the commandments (v. 17-20). There is, therefore, good
reason for believing that we have here a narrative written not much more
than fifty years after the death of Jesus, based partly upon the written
memorials of an apostle, and in the main trustworthy, save where it relates
occurrences of a marvellous and legendary character. Such is our author's
conclusion, and in describing the career of the Jesus of history, he relies
almost exclusively upon the statements contained in the first gospel. Let us
now after this long but inadequate introduction, give a brief sketch of the
life of Jesus, as it is to be found in our author.
Concerning the time and place of the birth of Jesus, we know next to
nothing. According to uniform tradition, based upon a statement of the third
gospel, he was about thirty years of age at the time when he began teaching.
The same gospel states, with elaborate precision, that the public career of
John the Baptist began in the fifteenth year of Tiberius, or A. D. 28. In the
winter of A. D. 35-36, Pontius Pilate was recalled from Judaea, so that the
crucifixion could not have taken place later than in the spring of 35. Thus
we have a period of about six years during which the ministry of Jesus must
have begun and ended; and if the tradition with respect to his age be
trustworthy, we shall not be far out of the way in supposing him to have
been born somewhere between B. C. 5 and A. D. 5. He is everywhere
alluded to in the gospels as Jesus of Nazareth in Galilee, where lived also
his father, mother brothers and sisters, and where very likely he was born.
His parents' names are said to have been Joseph and Mary. His own name is
a Hellenized form of Joshua, a name very common among the Jews.
According to the first gospel (xiii. 55), he had four brothers,—Joseph and
Simon; James, who was afterwards one of the heads of the church at

Jerusalem, and the most formidable enemy of Paul; and Judas or Jude, who
is perhaps the author of the anti-Pauline epistle commonly ascribed to him.
Of the early youth of Jesus, and of the circumstances which guided his
intellectual development, we know absolutely nothing, nor have we the data
requisite for forming any plausible hypothesis. He first appears in history
about A. D. 29 or 30, in connection with a very remarkable person whom
the third evangelist describes as his cousin, and who seems, from his mode
of life, to have been in some way connected with or influenced by the
Hellenizing sect of Essenes. Here we obtain our first clew to guide us in
forming a consecutive theory of the development of Jesus' opinions. The
sect of Essenes took its rise in the time of the Maccabees, about B. C. 170.
Upon the fundamental doctrines of Judaism it had engrafted many
Pythagorean notions, and was doubtless in the time of Jesus instrumental in
spreading Greek ideas among the people of Galilee, where Judaism was far
from being so narrow and rigid as at Jerusalem. The Essenes attached but
little importance to the Messianic expectations of the Pharisees, and
mingled scarcely at all in national politics. They lived for the most part a
strictly ascetic life, being indeed the legitimate predecessors of the early
Christian hermits and monks. But while pre-eminent for sanctity of life,
they heaped ridicule upon the entire sacrificial service of the Temple,
despised the Pharisees as hypocrites, and insisted upon charity toward all
men instead of the old Jewish exclusiveness.
It was once a favourite theory that both John the Baptist and Jesus were
members of the Essenian brotherhood; but that theory is now generally
abandoned. Whatever may have been the case with John, who is said to
have lived like an anchorite in the desert, there seems to have been but little
practical Essenism in Jesus, who is almost uniformly represented as
cheerful and social in demeanour, and against whom it was expressly urged
that he came eating and drinking, making no presence of puritanical
holiness. He was neither a puritan, like the Essenes, nor a ritualist, like the
Pharisees. Besides which, both John and Jesus seem to have begun their
careers by preaching the un-Essene doctrine of the speedy advent of the
"kingdom of heaven," by which is meant the reign of the Messiah upon the
earth. Nevertheless, though we cannot regard Jesus as actually a member of
the Essenian community or sect, we can hardly avoid the conclusion that
he, as well as John the Baptist, had been at some time strongly influenced
by Essenian doctrines. The spiritualized conception of the "kingdom of

heaven" proclaimed by him was just what would naturally and logically
arise from a remodelling of the Messianic theories of the Pharisees in
conformity to advanced Essenian notions. It seems highly probable that
some such refined conception of the functions of the Messiah was reached
by John, who, stigmatizing the Pharisees and Sadducees as a "generation of
vipers," called aloud to the people to repent of their sins, in view of the
speedy advent of the Messiah, and to testify to their repentance by
submitting to the Essenian rite of baptism. There is no positive evidence
that Jesus was ever a disciple of John; yet the account of the baptism, in
spite of the legendary character of its details, seems to rest upon a historical
basis; and perhaps the most plausible hypothesis which can be framed is,
that Jesus received baptism at John's hands, became for a while his disciple,
and acquired from him a knowledge of Essenian doctrines.
The career of John seems to have been very brief. His stern puritanism
brought him soon into disgrace with the government of Galilee. He was
seized by Herod, thrown into prison, and beheaded. After the brief hints
given as to the intercourse between Jesus and John, we next hear of Jesus
alone in the desert, where, like Sakyamuni and Mohammed, he may have
brooded in solitude over his great project. Yet we do not find that he had as
yet formed any distinct conception of his own Messiahship. The total
neglect of chronology by our authorities 20 renders it impossible to trace the
development of his thoughts step by step; but for some time after John's
catastrophe we find him calling upon the people to repent, in view of the
speedy approach of the Messiah, speaking with great and commanding
personal authority, but using no language which would indicate that he was
striving to do more than worthily fill the place and add to the good work of
his late master. The Sermon on the Mount, which the first gospel inserts in
this place, was perhaps never spoken as a continuous discourse; but it no
doubt for the most part contains the very words of Jesus, and represents the
general spirit of his teaching during this earlier portion of his career. In this
is contained nearly all that has made Christianity so powerful in the domain
of ethics. If all the rest of the gospel were taken away, or destroyed in the
night of some future barbarian invasion, we should still here possess the
secret of the wonderful impression which Jesus made upon those who heard
him speak. Added to the Essenian scorn of Pharisaic formalism, and the
spiritualized conception of the Messianic kingdom, which Jesus may
probably have shared with John the Baptist, we have here for the first time

the distinctively Christian conception of the fatherhood of God and the
brotherhood of men, which ultimately insured the success of the new
religion. The special point of originality in Jesus was his conception of
Deity. As Strauss well says, "He conceived of God, in a moral point of
view, as being identical in character with himself in the most exalted
moments of his religious life, and strengthened in turn his own religious life
by this ideal. But the most exalted religious tendency in his own
consciousness was exactly that comprehensive love, overpowering the evil
only by the good, which he therefore transferred to God as the fundamental
tendency of His nature." From this conception of God, observes Zeller,
flowed naturally all the moral teaching of Jesus, the insistence upon
spiritual righteousness instead of the mere mechanical observance of
Mosaic precepts, the call to be perfect even as the Father is perfect, the
principle of the spiritual equality of men before God, and the equal duties of
all men toward each other.
How far, in addition to these vitally important lessons, Jesus may have
taught doctrines of an ephemeral or visionary character, it is very difficult to
decide. We are inclined to regard the third gospel as of some importance in
settling this point. The author of that gospel represents Jesus as decidedly
hostile to the rich. Where Matthew has "Blessed are the poor in spirit,"
Luke has "Blessed are ye poor." In the first gospel we read, "Blessed are
they who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled"; but
in the third gospel we find, "Blessed are ye that hunger now, for ye will be
filled"; and this assurance is immediately followed by the denunciation,
"Woe to you that are rich, for ye have received your consolation! Woe to
you that are full now, for ye will hunger." The parable of Dives and Lazarus
illustrates concretely this view of the case, which is still further
corroborated by the account, given in both the first and the third gospels, of
the young man who came to seek everlasting life. Jesus here maintains that
righteousness is insufficient unless voluntary poverty be superadded.
Though the young man has strictly fulfilled the greatest of the
commandments,—to love his neighbour as himself,—he is required, as a
needful proof of his sincerity, to distribute all his vast possessions among
the poor. And when he naturally manifests a reluctance to perform so
superfluous a sacrifice, Jesus observes that it will be easier for a camel to go
through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to share in the glories of the
anticipated Messianic kingdom. It is difficult to escape the conclusion that

we have here a very primitive and probably authentic tradition; and when
we remember the importance which, according to the "Acts," the earliest
disciples attached to the principle of communism, as illustrated in the
legend of Ananias and Sapphira, we must admit strong reasons for believing
that Jesus himself held views which tended toward the abolition of private
property. On this point, the testimony of the third evangelist singly is of
considerable weight; since at the time when he wrote, the communistic
theories of the first generation of Christians had been generally abandoned,
and in the absence of any dogmatic motives, he could only have inserted
these particular traditions because he believed them to possess historical
value. But we are not dependent on the third gospel alone. The story just
cited is attested by both our authorities, and is in perfect keeping with the
general views of Jesus as reported by the first evangelist. Thus his disciples
are enjoined to leave all, and follow him; to take no thought for the morrow;
to think no more of laying up treasures on the earth, for in the Messianic
kingdom they shall have treasures in abundance, which can neither be
wasted nor stolen. On making their journeys, they are to provide neither
money, nor clothes, nor food, but are to live at the expense of those whom
they visit; and if any town refuse to harbour them, the Messiah, on his
arrival, will deal with that town more severely than Jehovah dealt with the
cities of the plain. Indeed, since the end of the world was to come before the
end of the generation then living (Matt. xxiv. 34; 1 Cor. xv. 51-56, vii. 29),
there could be no need for acquiring property or making arrangements for
the future; even marriage became unnecessary. These teachings of Jesus
have a marked Essenian character, as well as his declaration that in the
Messianic kingdom there was to be no more marriage, perhaps no
distinction of sex (Matt. xxii. 30). The sect of Ebionites, who represented
the earliest doctrine and practice of Christianity before it had been modified
by Paul, differed from the Essenes in no essential respect save in the
acknowledgment of Jesus as the Messiah, and the expectation of his speedy
return to the earth.
How long, or with what success, Jesus continued to preach the coming of
the Messiah in Galilee, it is impossible to conjecture. His fellow-townsmen
of Nazareth appear to have ridiculed him in his prophetical capacity; or, if
we may trust the third evangelist, to have arisen against him with
indignation, and made an attempt upon his life. To them he was but a
carpenter, the son of a carpenter (Matt. xiii. 55; Mark vi. 3), who told them

disagreeable truths. Our author represents his teaching in Galilee to have
produced but little result, but the gospel narratives afford no definite data
for deciding this point. We believe the most probable conclusion to be that
Jesus did attract many followers, and became famous throughout Galilee;
for Herod is said to have regarded him as John the Baptist risen from the
grave. To escape the malice of Herod, Jesus then retired to Syro-Phoenicia,
and during this eventful journey the consciousness of his own Messiahship
seems for the first time to have distinctly dawned upon him (Matt. xiv. 1,
13; xv. 21; xvi. 13-20). Already, it appears, speculations were rife as to the
character of this wonderful preacher. Some thought he was John the Baptist,
or perhaps one of the prophets of the Assyrian period returned to the earth.
Some, in accordance with a generally-received tradition, supposed him to
be Elijah, who had never seen death, and had now at last returned from the
regions above the firmament to announce the coming of the Messiah in the
clouds. It was generally admitted, among enthusiastic hearers, that he who
spake as never man spake before must have some divine commission to
execute. These speculations, coming to the ears of Jesus during his
preaching in Galilee, could not fail to excite in him a train of self-conscious
reflections. To him also must have been presented the query as to his own
proper character and functions; and, as our author acutely demonstrates, his
only choice lay between a profitless life of exile in Syro-Phoenicia, and a
bold return to Jewish territory in some pronounced character. The problem
being thus propounded, there could hardly be a doubt as to what that
character should be. Jesus knew well that he was not John the Baptist; nor,
however completely he may have been dominated by his sublime
enthusiasm, was it likely that he could mistake himself for an ancient
prophet arisen from the lower world of shades, or for Elijah descended from
the sky. But the Messiah himself he might well be. Such indeed was the
almost inevitable corollary from his own conception of Messiahship. We
have seen that he had, probably from the very outset, discarded the
traditional notion of a political Messiah, and recognized the truth that the
happiness of a people lies not so much in political autonomy as in the love
of God and the sincere practice of righteousness. The people were to be
freed from the bondage of sin, of meaningless formalism, of consecrated
hypocrisy,—a bondage more degrading than the payment of tribute to the
emperor. The true business of the Messiah, then, was to deliver his people
from the former bondage; it might be left to Jehovah, in his own good time,

to deliver them from the latter. Holding these views, it was hardly possible
that it should not sooner or later occur to Jesus that he himself was the
person destined to discharge this glorious function, to liberate his
countrymen from the thraldom of Pharisaic ritualism, and to inaugurate the
real Messianic kingdom of spiritual righteousness. Had he not already
preached the advent of this spiritual kingdom, and been instrumental in
raising many to loftier conceptions of duty, and to a higher and purer life?
And might he not now, by a grand attack upon Pharisaism in its central
stronghold, destroy its prestige in the eyes of the people, and cause Israel to
adopt a nobler religious and ethical doctrine? The temerity of such a
purpose detracts nothing from its sublimity. And if that purpose should be
accomplished, Jesus would really have performed the legitimate work of the
Messiah. Thus, from his own point of view, Jesus was thoroughly consistent
and rational in announcing himself as the expected Deliverer; and in the
eyes of the impartial historian his course is fully justified.
"From that time," says the first evangelist, "Jesus began to show to his
disciples that he must go to Jerusalem, and suffer many things from the
elders and chief priests and scribes, and be put to death, and rise again on
the third day." Here we have, obviously, the knowledge of the writer, after
the event, reflected back and attributed to Jesus. It is of course impossible
that Jesus should have predicted with such definiteness his approaching
death; nor is it very likely that he entertained any hope of being raised from
the grave "on the third day." To a man in that age and country, the
conception of a return from the lower world of shades was not a difficult
one to frame; and it may well be that Jesus' sense of his own exalted
position was sufficiently great to inspire him with the confidence that, even
in case of temporary failure, Jehovah would rescue him from the grave and
send him back with larger powers to carry out the purpose of his mission.
But the difficulty of distinguishing between his own words and the
interpretation put upon them by his disciples becomes here insuperable; and
there will always be room for the hypothesis that Jesus had in view no
posthumous career of his own, but only expressed his unshaken confidence
in the success of his enterprise, even after and in spite of his death.
At all events, the possibility of his death must now have been often in his
mind. He was undertaking a wellnigh desperate task,—to overthrow the
Pharisees in Jerusalem itself. No other alternative was left him. And here
we believe Mr. F. W. Newman to be singularly at fault in pronouncing this

attempt of Jesus upon Jerusalem a foolhardy attempt. According to Mr.
Newman, no man has any business to rush upon certain death, and it is only
a crazy fanatic who will do so. 21 But such "glittering generalizations" will
here help us but little. The historic data show that to go to Jerusalem, even
at the risk of death, was absolutely necessary to the realization of Jesus'
Messianic project. Mr. Newman certainly would not have had him drag out
an inglorious and baffled existence in Syro-Phoenicia. If the Messianic
kingdom was to be fairly inaugurated, there was work to be done in
Jerusalem, and Jesus must go there as one in authority, cost what it might.
We believe him to have gone there in a spirit of grand and careless bravery,
yet seriously and soberly, and under the influence of no fanatical delusion.
He knew the risks, but deliberately chose to incur them, that the will of
Jehovah might be accomplished.
We next hear of Jesus travelling down to Jerusalem by way of Jericho,
and entering the sacred city in his character of Messiah, attended by a great
multitude. It was near the time of the Passover, when people from all parts
of Galilee and Judaea were sure to be at Jerusalem, and the nature of his
reception seems to indicate that he had already secured a considerable
number of followers upon whose assistance he might hope to rely, though it
nowhere appears that he intended to use other than purely moral weapons to
insure a favourable reception. We must remember that for half a century
many of the Jewish people had been constantly looking for the arrival of the
Messiah, and there can be little doubt that the entry of Jesus riding upon an
ass in literal fulfilment of prophecy must have wrought powerfully upon the
imagination of the multitude. That the believers in him were very numerous
must be inferred from the cautious, not to say timid, behaviour of the rulers
at Jerusalem, who are represented as desiring to arrest him, but as deterred
from taking active steps through fear of the people. We are led to the same
conclusion by his driving the money-changers out of the Temple; an act
upon which he could hardly have ventured, had not the popular enthusiasm
in his favour been for the moment overwhelming. But the enthusiasm of a
mob is short-lived, and needs to be fed upon the excitement of brilliant and
dramatically arranged events. The calm preacher of righteousness, or even
the fiery denouncer of the scribes and Pharisees, could not hope to retain
undiminished authority save by the display of extraordinary powers to
which, so far as we know, Jesus (like Mohammed) made no presence (Matt.
xvi. 1-4). The ignorant and materialistic populace could not understand the

exalted conception of Messiahship which had been formed by Jesus, and as
day after day elapsed without the appearance of any marvellous sign from
Jehovah, their enthusiasm must naturally have cooled down. Then the
Pharisees appear cautiously endeavouring to entrap him into admissions
which might render him obnoxious to the Roman governor. He saw through
their design, however, and foiled them by the magnificent repartee, "Render
unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are
God's." Nothing could more forcibly illustrate the completely non-political
character of his Messianic doctrines. Nevertheless, we are told that, failing
in this attempt, the chief priests suborned false witnesses to testify against
him: this Sabbath-breaker, this derider of Mosaic formalism, who with his
Messianic pretensions excited the people against their hereditary teachers,
must at all events be put out of the way. Jesus must suffer the fate which
society has too often had in store for the reformer; the fate which Sokrates
and Savonarola, Vanini and Bruno, have suffered for being wiser than their
own generation. Messianic adventurers had already given much trouble to
the Roman authorities, who were not likely to scrutinize critically the
peculiar claims of Jesus. And when the chief priests accused him before
Pilate of professing to be "King of the Jews," this claim could in Roman
apprehension bear but one interpretation. The offence was treason,
punishable, save in the case of Roman citizens, by crucifixion.
Such in its main outlines is the historic career of Jesus, as constructed by
our author from data furnished chiefly by the first gospel. Connected with
the narrative there are many interesting topics of discussion, of which our
rapidly diminishing space will allow us to select only one for comment.
That one is perhaps the most important of all, namely, the question as to
how far Jesus anticipated the views of Paul in admitting Gentiles to share in
the privileges of the Messianic kingdom. Our author argues, with much
force, that the designs of Jesus were entirely confined to the Jewish people,
and that it was Paul who first, by admitting Gentiles to the Christian fold
without requiring them to live like Jews, gave to Christianity the character
of a universal religion. Our author reminds us that the third gospel is not to
be depended upon in determining this point, since it manifestly puts Pauline
sentiments into the mouth of Jesus, and in particular attributes to Jesus an
acquaintance with heretical Samaria which the first gospel disclaims. He
argues that the apostles were in every respect Jews, save in their belief that
Jesus was the Messiah; and he pertinently asks, if James, who was the

brother of Jesus, and Peter and John, who were his nearest friends,
unanimously opposed Paul and stigmatized him as a liar and heretic, is it at
all likely that Jesus had ever distinctly sanctioned such views as Paul
maintained?
In the course of many years' reflection upon this point, we have several
times been inclined to accept the narrow interpretation of Jesus' teaching
here indicated; yet, on the whole, we do not believe it can ever be
conclusively established. In the first place it must be remembered that if the
third gospel throws a Pauline colouring over the events which it describes,
the first gospel also shows a decidedly anti-Pauline bias, and the one party
was as likely as the other to attribute its own views to Jesus himself. One
striking instance of this tendency has been pointed out by Strauss, who has
shown that the verses Matt. v. 17-20 are an interpolation. The person who
teaches men to break the commandments is undoubtedly Paul, and in order
to furnish a text against Paul's followers, the "Nicolaitans," Jesus is made to
declare that he came not to destroy one tittle of the law, but to fulfil the
whole in every particular. Such an utterance is in manifest contradiction to
the spirit of Jesus' teaching, as shown in the very same chapter, and
throughout a great part of the same gospel. He who taught in his own name
and not as the scribes, who proclaimed himself Lord over the Sabbath, and
who manifested from first to last a more than Essenian contempt for rites
and ceremonies, did not come to fulfil the law of Mosaism, but to supersede
it. Nor can any inference adverse to this conclusion be drawn from the
injunction to the disciples (Matt. x. 5-7) not to preach to Gentiles and
Samaritans, but only "to the lost sheep of the house of Israel"; for this
remark is placed before the beginning of Jesus' Messianic career, and the
reason assigned for the restriction is merely that the disciples will not have
time even to preach to all the Jews before the coming of the Messiah, whose
approach Jesus was announcing (Matt. x. 23)
These examples show that we must use caution in weighing the
testimony even of the first gospel, and must not too hastily cite it as proof
that Jesus supposed his mission to be restricted to the Jews. When we come
to consider what happened a few years after the death of Jesus, we shall be
still less ready to insist upon the view defended by our anonymous author.
Paul, according to his own confession, persecuted the Christians unto death.
Now what, in the theories or in the practice of the Jewish disciples of Jesus,
could have moved Paul to such fanatic behaviour? Certainly not their

spiritual interpretation of Mosaism, for Paul himself belonged to the liberal
school of Gamaliel, to the views of which the teachings and practices of
Peter, James, and John might easily be accommodated. Probably not their
belief in Jesus as the Messiah, for at the riot in which Stephen was
murdered and all the Hellenist disciples driven from Jerusalem, the Jewish
disciples were allowed to remain in the city unmolested. (See Acts viii. 1,
14.) This marked difference of treatment indicates that Paul regarded
Stephen and his friends as decidedly more heretical and obnoxious than
Peter, James, and John, whom, indeed, Paul's own master Gamaliel had
recently (Acts v. 34) defended before the council. And this inference is fully
confirmed by the account of Stephen's death, where his murderers charge
him with maintaining that Jesus had founded a new religion which was
destined entirely to supersede and replace Judaism (Acts vi. 14). The
Petrine disciples never held this view of the mission of Jesus; and to this
difference it is undoubtedly owing that Paul and his companions forbore to
disturb them. It would thus appear that even previous to Paul's conversion,
within five or six years after the death of Jesus, there was a prominent party
among the disciples which held that the new religion was not a modification
but an abrogation of Judaism; and their name "Hellenists" sufficiently
shows either that there were Gentiles among them or that they held
fellowship with Gentiles. It was this which aroused Paul to persecution, and
upon his sudden conversion it was with these Hellenistic doctrines that he
fraternized, taking little heed of the Petrine disciples (Galatians i. 17), who
were hardly more than a Jewish sect.
Now the existence of these Hellenists at Jerusalem so soon after the death
of Jesus is clear proof that he had never distinctly and irrevocably
pronounced against the admission of Gentiles to the Messianic kingdom,
and it makes it very probable that the downfall of Mosaism as a result of his
preaching was by no means unpremeditated. While, on the other hand, the
obstinacy of the Petrine party in adhering to Jewish customs shows equally
that Jesus could not have unequivocally committed himself in favour of a
new gospel for the Gentiles. Probably Jesus was seldom brought into direct
contact with others than Jews, so that the questions concerning the
admission of Gentile converts did not come up during his lifetime; and thus
the way was left open for the controversy which soon broke out between the
Petrine party and Paul. Nevertheless, though Jesus may never have
definitely pronounced upon this point, it will hardly be denied that his

teaching, even as reported in the first gospel, is in its utter condemnation of
formalism far more closely allied to the Pauline than to the Petrine
doctrines. In his hands Mosaism became spiritualized until it really lost its
identity, and was transformed into a code fit for the whole Roman world.
And we do not doubt that if any one had asked Jesus whether circumcision
were an essential prerequisite for admission to the Messianic kingdom, he
would have given the same answer which Paul afterwards gave. We agree
with Zeller and Strauss that, "as Luther was a more liberal spirit than the
Lutheran divines of the succeeding generation, and Sokrates a more
profound thinker than Xenophon or Antisthenes, so also Jesus must be
credited with having raised himself far higher above the narrow prejudices
of his nation than those of his disciples who could scarcely understand the
spread of Christianity among the heathen when it had become an
accomplished fact."

January, 1870.

IV. THE CHRIST OF DOGMA. 22
Histoire du Dogme de la Divinite de Jesus-Christ, par Albert Reville.
Paris, 1869.
The End of the World and the Day of Judgment. Two Discourses by the
Rev. W. R. Alger. Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1870.
The meagreness of our information concerning the historic career of
Jesus stands in striking contrast with the mass of information which lies
within our reach concerning the primitive character of Christologic
speculation. First we have the four epistles of Paul, written from twenty to
thirty years after the crucifixion, which, although they tell us next to
nothing about what Jesus did, nevertheless give us very plain information as
to the impression which he made. Then we have the Apocalypse, written by
John, A. D. 68, which exhibits the Messianic theory entertained by the
earliest disciples. Next we have the epistles to the Hebrews, Philippians,
Colossians, and Ephesians, besides the four gospels, constituting altogether
a connected chain of testimony to the progress of Christian doctrine from
the destruction of Jerusalem to the time of the Quartodeciman controversy
(A. D. 70-170). Finally, there is the vast collection of apocryphal, heretical,
and patristic literature, from the writings of Justin Martyr, the pseudo-
Clement, and the pseudo-Ignatius, down to the time of the Council of
Nikaia, when the official theories of Christ's person assumed very nearly
the shape which they have retained, within the orthodox churches of
Christendom, down to the present day. As we pointed out in the foregoing
essay, while all this voluminous literature throws but an uncertain light
upon the life and teachings of the founder of Christianity, it nevertheless
furnishes nearly all the data which we could desire for knowing what the
early Christians thought of the master of their faith. Having given a brief
account of the historic career of Jesus, so far as it can now be determined,
we propose here to sketch the rise and progress of Christologic doctrine, in
its most striking features, during the first three centuries. Beginning with
the apostolic view of the human Messiah sent to deliver Judaism from its
spiritual torpor, and prepare it for the millennial kingdom, we shall briefly
trace the progressive metamorphosis of this conception until it completely

loses its identity in the Athanasian theory, according to which Jesus was
God himself, the Creator of the universe, incarnate in human flesh.
The earliest dogma held by the apostles concerning Jesus was that of his
resurrection from the grave after death. It was not only the earliest, but the
most essential to the success of the new religion. Christianity might have
overspread the Roman Empire, and maintained its hold upon men's faith
until to-day, without the dogmas of the incarnation and the Trinity; but
without the dogma of the resurrection it would probably have failed at the
very outset. Its lofty morality would not alone have sufficed to insure its
success. For what men needed then, as indeed they still need, and will
always need, was not merely a rule of life and a mirror to the heart, but also
a comprehensive and satisfactory theory of things, a philosophy or
theosophy. The times demanded intellectual as well as moral consolation;
and the disintegration of ancient theologies needed to be repaired, that the
new ethical impulse imparted by Christianity might rest upon a plausible
speculative basis. The doctrine of the resurrection was but the beginning of
a series of speculative innovations which prepared the way for the new
religion to emancipate itself from Judaism, and achieve the conquest of the
Empire. Even the faith of the apostles in the speedy return of their master
the Messiah must have somewhat lost ground, had it not been supported by
their belief in his resurrection from the grave and his consequent transfer
from Sheol, the gloomy land of shadows, to the regions above the sky.
The origin of the dogma of the resurrection cannot be determined with
certainty. The question has, during the past century, been the subject of
much discussion, upon which it is not necessary for us here to comment.
Such apparent evidence as there is in favour of the old theory of Jesus'
natural recovery from the effects of the crucifixion may be found in
Salvador's "Jesus-Christ et sa Doctrine"; but, as Zeller has shown, the
theory is utterly unsatisfactory. The natural return of Jesus to his disciples
never could have given rise to the notion of his resurrection, since the
natural explanation would have been the more obvious one; besides which,
if we were to adopt this hypothesis, we should be obliged to account for the
fact that the historic career of Jesus ends with the crucifixion. The most
probable explanation, on the whole, is the one suggested by the accounts in
the gospels, that the dogma of the resurrection is due originally to the
excited imagination of Mary of Magdala. 23 The testimony of Paul may also
be cited in favour of this view, since he always alludes to earlier

Christophanies in just the same language which he uses in describing his
own vision on the road to Damascus.
But the question as to how the belief in the resurrection of Jesus
originated is of less importance than the question as to how it should have
produced the effect that it did. The dogma of the resurrection has, until
recent times, been so rarely treated from the historical point of view, that
the student of history at first finds some difficulty in thoroughly realizing its
import to the minds of those who first proclaimed it. We cannot hope to
understand it without bearing in mind the theories of the Jews and early
Christians concerning the structure of the world and the cosmic location of
departed souls. Since the time of Copernicus modern Christians no longer
attempt to locate heaven and hell; they are conceived merely as mysterious
places remote from the earth. The theological universe no longer
corresponds to that which physical science presents for our contemplation.
It was quite different with the Jew. His conception of the abode of Jehovah
and the angels, and of departed souls, was exceedingly simple and definite.
In the Jewish theory the universe is like a sort of three-story house. The flat
earth rests upon the waters, and under the earth's surface is the land of
graves, called Sheol, where after death the souls of all men go, the righteous
as well as the wicked, for the Jew had not arrived at the doctrine of heaven
and hell. The Hebrew Sheol corresponds strictly to the Greek Hades, before
the notions of Elysium and Tartarus were added to it,—a land peopled with
flitting shadows, suffering no torment, but experiencing no pleasure, like
those whom Dante met in one of the upper circles of his Inferno. Sheol is
the first story of the cosmic house; the earth is the second. Above the earth
is the firmament or sky, which, according to the book of Genesis (chap. i. v.
6, Hebrew text), is a vast plate hammered out by the gods, and supports a
great ocean like that upon which the earth rests. Rain is caused by the
opening of little windows or trap-doors in the firmament, through which
pours the water of this upper ocean. Upon this water rests the land of
heaven, where Jehovah reigns, surrounded by hosts of angels. To this
blessed land two only of the human race had ever been admitted,—Enoch
and Elijah, the latter of whom had ascended in a chariot of fire, and was
destined to return to earth as the herald and forerunner of the Messiah.
Heaven forms the third story of the cosmic house. Between the firmament
and the earth is the air, which is the habitation of evil demons ruled by
Satan, the "prince of the powers of the air."

Such was the cosmology of the ancient Jew; and his theology was
equally simple. Sheol was the destined abode of all men after death, and no
theory of moral retribution was attached to the conception. The rewards and
punishments known to the authors of the Pentateuch and the early Psalms
are all earthly rewards and punishments. But in course of time the
prosperity of the wicked and the misfortunes of the good man furnished a
troublesome problem for the Jewish thinker; and after the Babylonish
Captivity, we find the doctrine of a resurrection from Sheol devised in order
to meet this case. According to this doctrine—which was borrowed from
the Zarathustrian theology of Persia—the Messiah on his arrival was to free
from Sheol all the souls of the righteous, causing them to ascend reinvested
in their bodies to a renewed and beautiful earth, while on the other hand the
wicked were to be punished with tortures like those of the valley of
Hinnom, or were to be immersed in liquid brimstone, like that which had
rained upon Sodom and Gomorrah. Here we get the first announcement of a
future state of retribution. The doctrine was peculiarly Pharisaic, and the
Sadducees, who were strict adherents to the letter of Mosaism, rejected it to
the last. By degrees this doctrine became coupled with the Messianic
theories of the Pharisees. The loss of Jewish independence under the
dominion of Persians, Macedonians, and Romans, caused the people to look
ever more earnestly toward the expected time when the Messiah should
appear in Jerusalem to deliver them from their oppressors. The moral
doctrines of the Psalms and earlier prophets assumed an increasingly
political aspect. The Jews were the righteous "under a cloud," whose
sufferings were symbolically depicted by the younger Isaiah as the
afflictions of the "servant of Jehovah"; while on the other hand, the
"wicked" were the Gentile oppressors of the holy people. Accordingly the
Messiah, on his arrival, was to sit in judgment in the valley of Jehoshaphat,
rectifying the wrongs of his chosen ones, condemning the Gentile tyrants to
the torments of Gehenna, and raising from Sheol all those Jews who had
lived and died during the evil times before his coming. These were to find
in the Messianic kingdom the compensation for the ills which they had
suffered in their first earthly existence. Such are the main outlines of the
theory found in the Book of Enoch, written about B. C. 100, and it is
adopted in the Johannine Apocalypse, with little variation, save in the
recognition of Jesus as the Messiah, and in the transferrence to his second
coming of all these wonderful proceedings. The manner of the Messiah's

coming had been variously imagined. According to an earlier view, he was
to enter Jerusalem as a King of the house of David, and therefore of human
lineage. According to a later view, presented in the Book of Daniel, he was
to descend from the sky, and appear among the clouds. Both these views
were adopted by the disciples of Jesus, who harmonized them by referring
the one to his first and the other to his second appearance.
Now to the imaginations of these earliest disciples the belief in the
resurrection of Jesus presented itself as a needful guarantee of his
Messiahship. Their faith, which must have been shaken by his execution
and descent into Sheol, received welcome confirmation by the springing up
of the belief that he had been again seen upon the face of the earth.
Applying the imagery of Daniel, it became a logical conclusion that he must
have ascended into the sky, whence he might shortly be expected to make
his appearance, to enact the scenes foretold in prophecy. That such was the
actual process of inference is shown by the legend of the Ascension in the
first chapter of the "Acts," and especially by the words, "This Jesus who
hath been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same manner in
which ye beheld him going into heaven." In the Apocalypse, written A. D.
68, just after the death of Nero, this second coming is described as
something immediately to happen, and the colours in which it is depicted
show how closely allied were the Johannine notions to those of the
Pharisees. The glories of the New Jerusalem are to be reserved for Jews,
while for the Roman tyrants of Judaea is reserved a fearful retribution. They
are to be trodden underfoot by the Messiah, like grapes in a wine-press,
until the gushing blood shall rise to the height of the horse's bridle.
In the writings of Paul the dogma of the resurrection assumes a very
different aspect. Though Paul, like the older apostles, held that Jesus, as the
Messiah, was to return to the earth within a few years, yet to his catholic
mind this anticipated event had become divested of its narrow Jewish
significance. In the eyes of Paul, the religion preached by Jesus was an
abrogation of Mosaism, and the truths contained in it were a free gift to the
Gentile as well as to the Jewish world. According to Paul, death came into
the world as a punishment for the sin of Adam. By this he meant that, had it
not been for the original transgression, all men escaping death would either
have remained upon earth or have been conveyed to heaven, like Enoch and
Elijah, in incorruptible bodies. But in reality as a penance for disobedience,
all men, with these two exceptions, had suffered death, and been exiled to

the gloomy caverns of Sheol. The Mosaic ritual was powerless to free men
from this repulsive doom, but it had nevertheless served a good purpose in
keeping men's minds directed toward holiness, preparing them, as a
schoolmaster would prepare his pupils, to receive the vitalizing truths of
Christ. Now, at last, the Messiah or Christ had come as a second Adam, and
being without sin had been raised by Jehovah out of Sheol and taken up into
heaven, as testimony to men that the power of sin and death was at last
defeated. The way henceforth to avoid death and escape the exile to Sheol
was to live spiritually like Jesus, and with him to be dead to sensual
requirements. Faith, in Paul's apprehension, was not an intellectual assent to
definitely prescribed dogmas, but, as Matthew Arnold has well pointed out,
it was an emotional striving after righteousness, a developing consciousness
of God in the soul, such as Jesus had possessed, or, in Paul's phraseology, a
subjugation of the flesh by the spirit. All those who should thus seek
spiritual perfection should escape the original curse. The Messiah was
destined to return to the earth to establish the reign of spiritual holiness,
probably during Paul's own lifetime (1 Cor. xv. 51). Then the true followers
of Jesus should be clothed in ethereal bodies, free from the imperfections of
"the flesh," and should ascend to heaven without suffering death, while the
righteous dead should at the same time be released from Sheol, even as
Jesus himself had been released.
To the doctrine of the resurrection, in which ethical and speculative
elements are thus happily blended by Paul, the new religion doubtless owed
in great part its rapid success. Into an account of the causes which favoured
the spreading of Christianity, it is not our purpose to enter at present. But
we may note that the local religions of the ancient pagan world had partly
destroyed each other by mutual intermingling, and had lost their hold upon
people from the circumstance that their ethical teaching no longer
corresponded to the advanced ethical feeling of the age. Polytheism, in
short, was outgrown. It was outgrown both intellectually and morally.
People were ceasing to believe in its doctrines, and were ceasing to respect
its precepts. The learned were taking refuge in philosophy, the ignorant in
mystical superstitions imported from Asia. The commanding ethical motive
of ancient republican times had been patriotism,—devotion to the interests
of the community. But Roman dominion had destroyed patriotism as a
guiding principle of life, and thus in every way the minds of men were left
in a sceptical, unsatisfied state,—craving after a new theory of life, and

craving after a new stimulus to right action. Obviously the only theology
which could now be satisfactory to philosophy or to common-sense was
some form of monotheism;—some system of doctrines which should
represent all men as spiritually subjected to the will of a single God, just as
they were subjected to the temporal authority of the Emperor. And similarly
the only system of ethics which could have a chance of prevailing must be
some system which should clearly prescribe the mutual duties of all men
without distinction of race or locality. Thus the spiritual morality of Jesus,
and his conception of God as a father and of all men as brothers, appeared
at once to meet the ethical and speculative demands of the time.
Yet whatever effect these teachings might have produced, if unaided by
further doctrinal elaboration, was enhanced myriadfold by the elaboration
which they received at the hands of Paul. Philosophic Stoics and Epicureans
had arrived at the conception of the brotherhood of men, and the Greek
hymn of Kleanthes had exhibited a deep spiritual sense of the fatherhood of
God. The originality of Christianity lay not so much in its enunciation of
new ethical precepts as in the fact that it furnished a new ethical sanction,—
a commanding incentive to holiness of living. That it might accomplish this
result, it was absolutely necessary that it should begin by discarding both
the ritualism and the narrow theories of Judaism. The mere desire for a
monotheistic creed had led many pagans, in Paul's time, to embrace
Judaism, in spite of its requirements, which to Romans and Greeks were
meaningless, and often disgusting; but such conversions could never have
been numerous. Judaism could never have conquered the Roman world; nor
is it likely that the Judaical Christianity of Peter, James, and John would
have been any more successful. The doctrine of the resurrection, in
particular, was not likely to prove attractive when accompanied by the
picture of the Messiah treading the Gentiles in the wine-press of his
righteous indignation. But here Paul showed his profound originality The
condemnation of Jewish formalism which Jesus had pronounced, Paul
turned against the older apostles, who insisted upon circumcision. With
marvellous flexibility of mind, Paul placed circumcision and the Mosaic
injunctions about meats upon a level with the ritual observances of pagan
nations, allowing each feeble brother to perform such works as might tickle
his fancy, but bidding all take heed that salvation was not to be obtained
after any such mechanical method, but only by devoting the whole soul to
righteousness, after the example of Jesus.

This was the negative part of Paul's work. This was the knocking down
of the barriers which had kept men, and would always have kept them, from
entering into the kingdom of heaven. But the positive part of Paul's work is
contained in his theory of the salvation of men from death through the
second Adam, whom Jehovah rescued from Sheol for his sinlessness. The
resurrection of Jesus was the visible token of the escape from death which
might be achieved by all men who, with God's aid, should succeed in
freeing themselves from the burden of sin which had encumbered all the
children of Adam. The end of the world was at hand, and they who would
live with Christ must figuratively die with Christ, must become dead to sin.
Thus to the pure and spiritual ethics contained in the teachings of Jesus,
Paul added an incalculably powerful incentive to right action, and a theory
of life calculated to satisfy the speculative necessities of the pagan or
Gentile world. To the educated and sceptical Athenian, as to the critical
scholar of modern times, the physical resurrection of Jesus from the grave,
and his ascent through the vaulted floor of heaven, might seem foolishness
or naivete. But to the average Greek or Roman the conception presented no
serious difficulty. The cosmical theories upon which the conception was
founded were essentially the same among Jews and Gentiles, and indeed
were but little modified until the establishment of the Copernican
astronomy. The doctrine of the Messiah's second coming was also received
without opposition, and for about a century men lived in continual
anticipation of that event, until hope long deferred produced its usual
results; the writings in which that event was predicted were gradually
explained away, ignored, or stigmatized as uncanonical; and the Church
ended by condemning as a heresy the very doctrine which Paul and the
Judaizing apostles, who agreed in little else, had alike made the basis of
their speculative teachings. Nevertheless, by the dint of allegorical
interpretation, the belief has maintained an obscure existence even down to
the present time; the Antiochus of the Book of Daniel and the Nero of the
Apocalypse having given place to the Roman Pontiff or to the Emperor of
the French.
But as the millenarism of the primitive Church gradually died out during
the second century, the essential principles involved in it lost none of their
hold on men's minds. As the generation contemporary with Paul died away
and was gathered into Sheol, it became apparent that the original theory
must be somewhat modified, and to this question the author of the second

epistle to the Thessalonians addresses himself. Instead of literal
preservation from death, the doctrine of a resurrection from the grave was
gradually extended to the case of the new believers, who were to share in
the same glorious revival with the righteous of ancient times. And thus by
slow degrees the victory over death, of which the resurrection of Jesus was
a symbol and a witness, became metamorphosed into the comparatively
modern doctrine of the rest of the saints in heaven, while the banishment of
the unrighteous to Sheol was made still more dreadful by coupling with the
vague conception of a gloomy subterranean cavern the horrible imagery of
the lake of fire and brimstone borrowed from the apocalyptic descriptions
of Gehenna. But in this modification of the original theory, the fundamental
idea of a future state of retribution was only the more distinctly
emphasized; although, in course of time, the original incentive to
righteousness supplied by Paul was more and more subordinated to the
comparatively degrading incentive involved in the fear of damnation. There
can hardly be a doubt that the definiteness and vividness of the Pauline
theory of a future life contributed very largely to the rapid spread of the
Christian religion; nor can it be doubted that to the desire to be holy like
Jesus, in order to escape death and live with Jesus, is due the elevating
ethical influence which, even in the worst times of ecclesiastic degeneracy,
Christianity has never failed to exert. Doubtless, as Lessing long, ago
observed, the notion of future reward and punishment needs to be
eliminated in order that the incentive to holiness may be a perfectly pure
one. The highest virtue is that which takes no thought of reward or
punishment; but for a conception of this sort the mind of antiquity was not
ready, nor is the average mind of to-day yet ready; and the sudden or
premature dissolution of the Christian theory—which is fortunately
impossible—might perhaps entail a moral retrogradation.
The above is by no means intended as a complete outline of the religious
philosophy of Paul. We have aimed only at a clear definition of the
character and scope of the doctrine of the resurrection of Jesus, at the time
when it was first elaborated. We have now to notice the influence of that
doctrine upon the development of Christologic speculation.
In neither or the four genuine epistles of Paul is Jesus described as
superhuman, or as differing in nature from other men, save in his freedom
from sin. As Baur has shown, "the proper nature of the Pauline Christ is
human. He is a man, but a spiritual man, one in whom spirit or pneuma was

the essential principle, so that he was spirit as well as man. The principle of
an ideal humanity existed before Christ in the bright form of a typical man,
but was manifested to mankind in the person of Christ." Such, according to
Baur, is Paul's interpretation of the Messianic idea. Paul knows nothing of
the miracles, of the supernatural conception, of the incarnation, or of the
Logos. The Christ whom he preaches is the man Jesus, the founder of a new
and spiritual order of humanity, as Adam was the father of humanity after
the flesh. The resurrection is uniformly described by him as a manifestation
of the power of Jehovah, not of Jesus himself. The later conception of
Christ bursting the barred gates of Sheol, and arising by his own might to
heaven, finds no warrant in the expressions of Paul. Indeed, it was essential
to Paul's theory of the Messiah as a new Adam, that he should be human
and not divine; for the escape of a divine being from Sheol could afford no
precedent and furnish no assurance of the future escape of human beings. It
was expressly because the man Jesus had been rescued from the grave
because of his spirituality, that other men might hope, by becoming spiritual
like him, to be rescued also. Accordingly Paul is careful to state that "since
through man came death, through man came also the resurrection of the
dead" (1 Cor. xv. 21); a passage which would look like an express denial of
Christ's superhuman character, were it probable that any of Paul's
contemporaries had ever conceived of Jesus as other than essentially
human.
But though Paul's Christology remained in this primitive stage, it
contained the germs of a more advanced theory. For even Paul conceived of
Jesus as a man wholly exceptional in spiritual character; or, in the
phraseology of the time, as consisting to a larger extent of pneuma than any
man who had lived before him. The question was sure to arise, Whence
came this pneuma or spiritual quality? Whether the question ever distinctly
presented itself to Paul's mind cannot be determined. Probably it did not. In
those writings of his which have come down to us, he shows himself
careless of metaphysical considerations. He is mainly concerned with
exhibiting the unsatisfactory character of Jewish Christianity, and with
inculcating a spiritual morality, to which the doctrine of Christ's
resurrection is made to supply a surpassingly powerful sanction. But
attempts to solve the problem were not long in coming. According to a very
early tradition, of which the obscured traces remain in the synoptic gospels,
Jesus received the pneuma at the time of his baptism, when the Holy Spirit,

or visible manifestation of the essence of Jehovah, descended upon him and
became incarnate in him. This theory, however, was exposed to the
objection that it implied a sudden and entire transformation of an ordinary
man into a person inspired or possessed by the Deity. Though long
maintained by the Ebionites or primitive Christians, it was very soon
rejected by the great body of the Church, which asserted instead that Jesus
had been inspired by the Holy Spirit from the moment of his conception.
From this it was but a step to the theory that Jesus was actually begotten by
or of the Holy Spirit; a notion which the Hellenic mind, accustomed to the
myths of Leda, Anchises, and others, found no difficulty in entertaining.
According to the Gospel of the Hebrews, as cited by Origen, the Holy Spirit
was the mother of Jesus, and Joseph was his father. But according to the
prevailing opinion, as represented in the first and third synoptists, the
relationship was just the other way. With greater apparent plausibility, the
divine aeon was substituted for the human father, and a myth sprang up, of
which the materialistic details furnished to the opponents of the new
religion an opportunity for making the most gross and exasperating
insinuations. The dominance of this theory marks the era at which our first
and third synoptic gospels were composed,—from sixty to ninety years
after the death of Jesus. In the luxuriant mythologic growth there exhibited,
we may yet trace the various successive phases of Christologic speculation
but imperfectly blended. In "Matthew" and "Luke" we find the original
Messianic theory exemplified in the genealogies of Jesus, in which,
contrary to historic probability (cf. Matt. xxii. 41-46), but in accordance
with a time-honoured tradition, his pedigree is traced back to David;
"Matthew" referring him to the royal line of Judah, while "Luke" more
cautiously has recourse to an assumed younger branch. Superposed upon
this primitive mythologic stratum, we find, in the same narratives, the
account of the descent of the pneuma at the time of the baptism; and
crowning the whole, there are the two accounts of the nativity which,
though conflicting in nearly all their details, agree in representing the divine
pneuma as the father of Jesus. Of these three stages of Christology, the last
becomes entirely irreconcilable with the first; and nothing can better
illustrate the uncritical character of the synoptists than the fact that the
assumed descent of Jesus from David through his father Joseph is allowed
to stand side by side with the account of the miraculous conception which
completely negatives it. Of this difficulty "Matthew" is quite unconscious,

and "Luke," while vaguely noticing it (iii. 23), proposes no solution, and
appears undisturbed by the contradiction.
Thus far the Christology with which we have been dealing is
predominantly Jewish, though to some extent influenced by Hellenic
conceptions. None of the successive doctrines presented in Paul,
"Matthew," and "Luke" assert or imply the pre-existence of Jesus. At this
early period he was regarded as a human being raised to participation in
certain attributes of divinity; and this was as far as the dogma could be
carried by the Jewish metaphysics. But soon after the date of our third
gospel, a Hellenic system of Christology arose into prominence, in which
the problem was reversed, and Jesus was regarded as a semi-divine being
temporarily lowered to participation in certain attributes of humanity. For
such a doctrine Jewish mythology supplied no precedents; but the Indo-
European mind was familiar with the conception of deity incarnate in
human form, as in the avatars of Vishnu, or even suffering III the interests
of humanity, as in the noble myth of Prometheus. The elements of
Christology pre-existing in the religious conceptions of Greece, India, and
Persia, are too rich and numerous to be discussed here. A very full account
of them is given in Mr. R. W. Mackay's acute and learned treatise on the
"Religious Development of the Greeks and Hebrews{.}"
It was in Alexandria, where Jewish theology first came into contact with
Hellenic and Oriental ideas, that the way was prepared for the dogma of
Christ's pre-existence. The attempt to rationalize the conception of deity as
embodied in the Jehovah of the Old Testament gave rise to the class of
opinions described as Gnosis, or Gnosticism. The signification of Gnosis is
simply "rationalism,"—the endeavour to harmonize the materialistic
statements of an old mythology with the more advanced spiritualistic
philosophy of the time. The Gnostics rejected the conception of an
anthropomorphic deity who had appeared visibly and audibly to the
patriarchs; and they were the authors of the doctrine, very widely spread
during the second and third centuries, that God could not in person have
been the creator of the world. According to them, God, as pure spirit, could
not act directly upon vile and gross matter. The difficulty which troubled
them was curiously analogous to that which disturbed the Cartesians and
the followers of Leibnitz in the seventeenth century; how was spirit to act
upon matter, without ceasing, pro tanto, to be spirit? To evade this
difficulty, the Gnostics postulated a series of emanations from God,

becoming successively less and less spiritual and more and more material,
until at the lowest end of the scale was reached the Demiurgus or Jehovah
of the Old Testament, who created the world and appeared, clothed in
material form, to the patriarchs. According to some of the Gnostics this
lowest aeon or emanation was identical with the Jewish Satan, or the
Ahriman of the Persians, who is called "the prince of this world," and the
creation of the world was an essentially evil act. But all did not share in
these extreme opinions. In the prevailing, theory, this last of the divine
emanations was identified with the "Sophia," or personified "Wisdom," of
the Book of Proverbs (viii. 22-30), who is described as present with God
before the foundation of the world. The totality of these aeons constituted
the pleroma, or "fulness of God" (Coloss. i. 20; Eph. i. 23), and in a
corollary which bears unmistakable marks of Buddhist influence, it was
argued that, in the final consummation of things, matter should be
eliminated and all spirit reunited with God, from whom it had primarily
flowed.
It was impossible that such views as these should not soon be taken up
and applied to the fluctuating Christology of the time. According to the
"Shepherd of Hermas," an apocalyptic writing nearly contemporary with the
gospel of "Mark," the aeon or son of God who existed previous to the
creation was not the Christ, or the Sophia, but the Pneuma or Holy Spirit,
represented in the Old Testament as the "angel of Jehovah." Jesus, in reward
for his perfect goodness, was admitted to a share in the privileges of this
Pneuma (Reville, p. 39). Here, as M. Reville observes, though a Gnostic
idea is adopted, Jesus is nevertheless viewed as ascending humanity, and
not as descending divinity. The author of the "Clementine Homilies"
advances a step farther, and clearly assumes the pre-existence of Jesus,
who, in his opinion, was the pure, primitive man, successively incarnate in
Adam, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, and finally in the
Messiah or Christ. The author protests, in vehement language, against those
Hellenists who, misled by their polytheistic associations, would elevate
Jesus into a god. Nevertheless, his own hypothesis of pre-existence supplied
at once the requisite fulcrum for those Gnostics who wished to reconcile a
strict monotheism with the ascription of divine attributes to Jesus.
Combining with this notion of pre-existence the pneumatic or spiritual
quality attributed to Jesus in the writings of Paul, the Gnosticizing
Christians maintained that Christ was an aeon or emanation from God,

redeeming men from the consequences entailed by their imprisonment in
matter. At this stage of Christologic speculation appeared the anonymous
epistle to the "Hebrews," and the pseudo-Pauline epistles to the
"Colossians," "Ephesians," and "Philippians" (A. D. 130). In these epistles,
which originated among the Pauline Christians, the Gnostic theosophy is
skilfully applied to the Pauline conception of the scope and purposes of
Christianity. Jesus is described as the creator of the world (Coloss. i. 16),
the visible image of the invisible God, the chief and ruler of the "throues,
dominions, principalities, and powers," into which, in Gnostic phraseology,
the emanations of God were classified. Or, according to "Colossians" and
"Philippians," all the aeons are summed up in him, in whom dwells the
pleroma, or "fulness of God." Thus Jesus is elevated quite above ordinary
humanity, and a close approach is made to ditheism, although he is still
emphatically subordinated to God by being made the creator of the world,
—an office then regarded as incompatible with absolute divine perfection.
In the celebrated passage, "Philippians" ii. 6-11, the aeon Jesus is described
as being the form or visible manifestation of God, yet as humbling himself
by taking on the form or semblance of humanity, and suffering death, in
return for which he is to be exalted even above the archangels. A similar
view is taken in "Hebrews"; and it is probable that to the growing favour
with which these doctrines were received, we owe the omission of the
miraculous conception from the gospel of "Mark,"—a circumstance which
has misled some critics into assigning to that gospel an earlier date than to
"Matthew" and "Luke." Yet the fact that in this gospel Jesus is implicitly
ranked above the angels (Mark xiii. 32), reveals a later stage of Christologic
doctrine than that reached by the first and third synoptists; and it is
altogether probable that, in accordance with the noticeable conciliatory
disposition of this evangelist, the supernatural conception is omitted out of
deference to the Gnosticizing theories of "Colossians" and "Philippians," in
which this materialistic doctrine seems to have had no assignable place. In
"Philippians" especially, many expressions seem to verge upon Docetism,
the extreme form of Gnosticism, according to which the human body of
Jesus was only a phantom. Valentinus, who was contemporary with the
Pauline writers of the second century, maintained that Jesus was not born of
Mary by any process of conception, but merely passed through her, as light
traverses a translucent substance. And finally Marcion (A. D. 140) carried

the theory to its extreme limits by declaring that Jesus was the pure Pneuma
or Spirit, who contained nothing in common with carnal humanity.
The pseudo-Pauline writers steered clear of this extravagant doctrine,
which erred by breaking entirely with historic tradition, and was
consequently soon condemned as heretical. Their language, though
unmistakably Gnostic, was sufficiently neutral and indefinite to allow of
their combination with earlier and later expositions of dogma, and they
were therefore eventually received into the canon, where they exhibit a
stage of opinion midway between that of Paul and that of the fourth gospel.
For the construction of a durable system of Christology, still further
elaboration was necessary. The pre-existence of Jesus, as an emanation
from God, in whom were summed up the attributes of the pleroma or full
scale of Gnostic aeons, was now generally conceded. But the relation of this
pleroqma to the Godhead of which it was the visible manifestation, needed
to be more accurately defined. And here recourse was had to the conception
of the "Logos,"—a notion which Philo had borrowed from Plato, lending to
it a theosophic significance. In the Platonic metaphysics objective existence
was attributed to general terms, the signs of general notions. Besides each
particular man, horse, or tree, and besides all men, horses, and trees, in the
aggregate, there was supposed to exist an ideal Man, Horse, and Tree. Each
particular man, horse, or tree consisted of abstract existence plus a portion
of the ideal man, horse, or tree. Sokrates, for instance, consisted of
Existence, plus Animality, plus Humanity, plus Sokraticity. The visible
world of particulars thus existed only by virtue of its participation in the
attributes of the ideal world of universals. God created the world by
encumbering each idea with an envelopment or clothing of visible matter;
and since matter is vile or imperfect, all things are more or less perfect as
they partake more or less fully of the idea. The pure unencumbered idea, the
"Idea of ideas," is the Logos, or divine Reason, which represents the sum-
total of the activities which sustain the world, and serves as a mediator
between the absolutely ideal God and the absolutely non-ideal matter. Here
we arrive at a Gnostic conception, which the Philonists of Alexandria were
not slow to appropriate. The Logos, or divine Reason, was identified with
the Sophia, or divine Wisdom of the Jewish Gnostics, which had dwelt with
God before the creation of the world. By a subtle play upon the double
meaning of the Greek term (logos = "reason" or "word"), a distinction was
drawn between the divine Reason and the divine Word. The former was the

archctypal idea or thought of God, existing from all eternity; the latter was
the external manifestation or realization of that idea which occurred at the
moment of creation, when, according to Genesis, God SPOKE, and the
world was.
In the middle of the second century, this Philonian theory was the one
thing needful to add metaphysical precision to the Gnostic and Pauline
speculations concerning the nature of Jesus. In the writings of Justin Martyr
(A. D. 150-166), Jesus is for the first time identified with the Philonian
Logos or "Word of God." According to Justin, an impassable abyss exists
between the Infinite Deity and the Finite World; the one cannot act upon the
other; pure spirit cannot contaminate itself by contact with impure matter.
To meet this difficulty, God evolves from himself a secondary God, the
Logos,—yet without diminishing himself any more than a flame is
diminished when it gives birth to a second flame. Thus generated, like light
begotten of light (lumen de lumine), the Logos creates the world, inspires
the ancient prophets with their divine revelations, and finally reveals
himself to mankind in the person of Christ. Yet Justin sedulously guards
himself against ditheism, insisting frequently and emphatically upon the
immeasurable inferiority of the Logos as compared with the actual God (gr
o ontws qeos).
We have here reached very nearly the ultimate phase of New Testament
speculation concerning Jesus. The doctrines enunciated by Justin became
eventually, with slight modification, the official doctrines of the Church; yet
before they could thus be received, some further elaboration was needed.
The pre-existing Logos-Christ of Justin was no longer the human Messiah
of the first and third gospels, born of a woman, inspired by the divine
Pneuma, and tempted by the Devil. There was danger that Christologic
speculation might break quite loose from historic tradition, and pass into the
metaphysical extreme of Docetism. Had this come to pass, there might
perhaps have been a fatal schism in the Church. Tradition still remained
Ebionitish; dogma had become decidedly Gnostic; how were the two to be
moulded into harmony with each other? Such was the problem which
presented itself to the author of the fourth gospel (A. D. 170-180). As M.
Reville observes, "if the doctrine of the Logos were really to be applied to
the person of Jesus, it was necessary to remodel the evangelical history."
Tradition must be moulded so as to fit the dogma, but the dogma must be
restrained by tradition from running into Docetic extravagance. It must be

shown historically how "the Word became flesh" and dwelt on earth (John i.
14), how the deeds of Jesus of Nazareth were the deeds of the incarnate
Logos, in whom was exhibited the pleroma or fulness of the divine
attributes. The author of the fourth gospel is, like Justin, a Philonian
Gnostic; but he differs from Justin in his bold and skilful treatment of the
traditional materials supplied by the earlier gospels. The process of
development in the theories and purposes of Jesus, which can be traced
throughout the Messianic descriptions of the first gospel, is entirely
obliterated in the fourth. Here Jesus appears at the outset as the creator of
the world, descended from his glory, but destined soon to be reinstated. The
title "Son of Man" has lost its original significance, and become
synonymous with "Son of God." The temptation, the transfiguration, the
scene in Gethsemane, are omitted, and for the latter is substituted a
Philonian prayer. Nevertheless, the author carefully avoids the extremes of
Docetism or ditheism. Not only does he represent the human life of Jesus as
real, and his death as a truly physical death, but he distinctly asserts the
inferiority of the Son to the Father (John xiv. 28). Indeed, as M. Reville
well observes, it is part of the very notion of the Logos that it should be
imperfect relatively to the absolute God; since it is only its relative
imperfection which allows it to sustain relations to the world and to men
which are incompatible with absolute perfection, from the Philonian point
of view. The Athanasian doctrine of the Trinity finds no support in the
fourth gospel, any more than in the earlier books collected in the New
Testament.
The fourth gospel completes the speculative revolution by which the
conception of a divine being lowered to humanity was substituted for that
of a human being raised to divinity. We have here travelled a long distance
from the risen Messiah of the genuine Pauline epistles, or the preacher of
righteousness in the first gospel. Yet it does not seem probable that the
Church of the third century was thoroughly aware of the discrepancy. The
authors of the later Christology did not regard themselves as adding new
truths to Christianity, but merely as giving a fuller and more consistent
interpretation to what must have been known from the outset. They were so
completely destitute of the historic sense, and so strictly confined to the
dogmatic point of view, that they projected their own theories back into the
past, and vituperated as heretics those who adhered to tradition in its earlier
and simpler form. Examples from more recent times are not wanting, which

show that we are dealing here with an inveterate tendency of the human
mind. New facts and new theories are at first condemned as heretical or
ridiculous; but when once firmly established, it is immediately maintained
that every one knew them before. After the Copernican astronomy had won
the day, it was tacitly assumed that the ancient Hebrew astronomy was
Copernican, and the Biblical conception of the universe as a kind of three-
story house was ignored, and has been, except by scholars, quite forgotten.
When the geologic evidence of the earth's immense antiquity could no
longer be gainsaid, it was suddenly ascertained that the Bible had from the
outset asserted that antiquity; and in our own day we have seen an elegant
popular writer perverting the testimony of the rocks and distorting the
Elohistic cosmogony of the Pentateuch, until the twain have been made to
furnish what Bacon long ago described as "a heretical religion and a false
philosophy." Now just as in the popular thought of the present day the
ancient Elohist is accredited with a knowledge of modern geology and
astronomy, so in the opinion of the fourth evangelist and his contemporaries
the doctrine of the Logos-Christ was implicitly contained in the Old
Testament and in the early traditions concerning Jesus, and needed only to
be brought into prominence by a fresh interpretation. Hence arose the fourth
gospel, which was no more a conscious violation of historic data than Hugh
Miller's imaginative description of the "Mosaic Vision of Creation." Its
metaphysical discourses were readily accepted as equally authentic with the
Sermon on the Mount. Its Philonian doctrines were imputed to Paul and the
apostles, the pseudo-Pauline epistles furnishing the needful texts. The
Ebionites—who were simply Judaizing Christians, holding in nearly its
original form the doctrine of Peter, James, and John—were ejected from the
Church as the most pernicious of heretics; and so completely was their
historic position misunderstood and forgotten, that, in order to account for
their existence, it became necessary to invent an eponymous heresiarch,
Ebion, who was supposed to have led them astray from the true faith!
The Christology of the fourth gospel is substantially the same as that
which was held in the next two centuries by Tertullian, Clement of
Alexandria, Origen, and Arius. When the doctrine of the Trinity was first
announced by Sabellius (A. D. 250-260), it was formally condemned as
heretical, the Church being not yet quite prepared to receive it. In 269 the
Council of Antioch solemnly declared that the Son was NOT consubstantial
with the Father,—a declaration which, within sixty years, the Council of

Nikaia was destined as solemnly to contradict. The Trinitarian Christology
struggled long for acceptance, and did not finally win the victory until the
end of the fourth century. Yet from the outset its ultimate victory was hardly
doubtful. The peculiar doctrines of the fourth gospel could retain their
integrity only so long as Gnostic ideas were prevalent. When Gnosticism
declined in importance, and its theories faded out of recollection, its
peculiar phraseology received of necessity a new interpretation. The
doctrine that God could not act directly upon the world sank gradually into
oblivion as the Church grew more and more hostile to the Neo-Platonic
philosophy. And when this theory was once forgotten, it was inevitable that
the Logos, as the creator of the world, should be raised to an equality or
identity with God himself. In the view of the fourth evangelist, the Creator
was necessarily inferior to God; in the view of later ages, the Creator could
be none other than God. And so the very phrases which had most
emphatically asserted the subordination of the Son were afterward
interpreted as asserting his absolute divinity. To the Gnostic formula, lumen
de lumine, was added the Athanasian scholium, Deum verum de Deo vero;
and the Trinitarian dogma of the union of persons in a single Godhead
became thus the only available logical device for preserving the purity of
monotheism.

February, 1870.

V. A WORD ABOUT MIRACLES. 24
It is the lot of every book which attempts to treat the origin and progress
of Christianity in a sober and scientific spirit, to meet with unsparing
attacks. Critics in plenty are always to be found, who, possessed with the
idea that the entire significance and value of the Christian religion are
demolished unless we regard it as a sort of historical monstrosity, are only
too eager to subject the offending work to a scathing scrutiny, displaying
withal a modicum of righteous indignation at the unblushing heresy of the
author, not unmixed with a little scornful pity at his inability to believe very
preposterous stories upon very meagre evidence. "Conservative" polemics
of this sort have doubtless their function. They serve to purge scientific
literature of the awkward and careless statements too often made by writers
not sufficiently instructed or cautious, which in the absence of hostile
criticism might get accepted by the unthinking reader along with the truths
which they accompany. Most scientific and philosophical works have their
defects; and it is fortunate that there is such a thing as dogmatic ardour in
the world, ever sharpening its wits to the utmost, that it may spy each
lurking inaccuracy and ruthlessly drag it to light. But this useful spirit is
wont to lead those who are inspired by it to shoot beyond the mark, and
after pointing out the errors of others, to commit fresh mistakes of their
own. In the skilful criticism of M. Renan's work on the Apostles, in No. 29
of the "Fortnightly Review" there is now and then a vulnerable spot through
which a controversial shaft may perhaps be made to pierce.
It may be true that Lord Lyttelton's tract on the Conversion of St. Paul, as
Dr. Johnson and Dr. Rogers have said, has never yet been refuted; but if I
may judge from my own recollection of the work, I should say that this
must be because no competent writer ever thought it worth his pains to
criticize it. Its argument contains about as much solid consistency as a
distended balloon, and collapses as readily at the first puncture. It attempts
to prove, first, that the conversion of St. Paul cannot be made intelligible
except on the assumption that there was a miracle in the case; and secondly,
that if Paul was converted by a miracle, the truth of Christianity is
impregnable. Now, if the first of these points be established, the

demonstration is not yet complete, for the second point must be proved
independently. But if the first point be overthrown, the second loses its
prop, and falls likewise.
Great efforts are therefore made to show that no natural influences could
have intervened to bring about a change in the feelings of Paul. He was
violent, "thorough," unaffected by pity or remorse; and accordingly he
could not have been so completely altered as he was, had he not actually
beheld the risen Christ: such is the argument which Mr. Rogers deems so
conclusive. I do not know that from any of Paul's own assertions we are
entitled to affirm that no shade of remorse had ever crossed his mind
previous to the vision near Damascus. But waiving this point, I do maintain
that, granting Paul's feelings to have been as Mr. Rogers thinks they were,
his conversion is inexplicable, even on the hypothesis of a miracle. He that
is determined not to believe, will not believe, though one should rise from
the dead. To make Paul a believer, it was not enough that he should meet his
Lord face to face he must have been already prepared to believe. Otherwise
he would have easily found means of explaining the miracle from his own
point of view. He would certainly have attributed it to the wiles of the
demon, even as the Pharisees are said to have done with regard to the
miraculous cures performed by Jesus. A "miraculous" occurrence in those
days did not astonish as it would at present. "Miracles" were rather the
order of the day, and in fact were lavished with such extreme bounty on all
hands, that their convincing power was very slight. Neither side ever
thought of disputing the reality of the miracles supposed to be performed on
the other; but each side considered the miracles of its antagonist to be the
work of diabolic agencies. Such being the case, it is useless to suppose that
Paul could have distinguished between a true and a false miracle, or that a
real miracle could of itself have had any effect in inducing him to depart
from his habitual course of belief and action. As far as Paul's mental
operations were concerned, it could have made no difference whether he
met with his future Master in person, or merely encountered him in a vision.
The sole point to be considered is whether or not he BELIEVED in the
Divine character and authority of the event which had happened. What the
event might have really been was of no practical consequence to him or to
any one else. What he believed it to be was of the first importance. And
since he did believe that he had been divinely summoned to cease
persecuting, and commence preaching the new faith, it follows that his state

of mind must have been more or less affected by circumstances other than
the mere vision. Had he not been ripe for change, neither shadow nor
substance could have changed him.
This view of the case is by no means so extravagant as Mr. Rogers would
have us suppose. There is no reason for believing that Paul's character was
essentially different afterwards from what it had been before. The very
fervour which caused him, as a Pharisee, to exclude all but orthodox Jews
from the hope of salvation, would lead him, as a Christian, to carry the
Christian idea to its extreme development, and admit all persons whatever
to the privileges of the Church. The same zeal for the truth which had urged
him to persecute the Christians unto the death afterwards led him to spare
no toil and shun no danger which might bring about the triumph of their
cause. It must not be forgotten that the persecutor and the martyr are but
one and the same man under different circumstances. He who is ready to die
for his own faith will sometimes think it fair to make other men die for
theirs. Men of a vehement and fiery temperament, moreover,—such as Paul
always was,—never change their opinions slowly, never rest in philosophic
doubt, never take a middle course. If they leave one extreme for an instant,
they are drawn irresistibly to the other; and usually very little is needed to
work the change. The conversion of Omar is a striking instance in point,
and has been cited by M. Renan himself. The character of Omar bears a
strong likeness to that of Paul. Previous to his conversion, he was a
conscientious and virulent persecutor of Mohammedanism. 25 After his
conversion, he was Mohammed's most efficient disciple, and it may be
safely asserted that for disinterestedness and self-abnegation he was not
inferior to the Apostle of the Gentiles. The change in his case was,
moreover, quite as sudden and unexpected as it was with Paul; it was
neither more nor less incomprehensible; and if Paul's conversion needs a
miracle to explain it, Omar's must need one likewise. But in truth, there is
no difficulty in the case, save that which stupid dogmatism has created. The
conversions of Paul and Omar are paralleled by innumerable events which
occur in every period of religious or political excitement. Far from being
extraordinary, or inexplicable on natural grounds, such phenomena are just
what might occasionally be looked for.
But, says Mr. Rogers, "is it possible for a moment to imagine the doting
and dreaming victim of hallucinations (which M. Renan's theory represents
Paul) to be the man whose masculine sense, strong logic, practical

prudence, and high administrative talent appear in the achievements of his
life, and in the Epistles he has left behind him?" M. Renan's theory does
not, however, represent Paul as the "victim of hallucinations" to a greater
degree than Mohammed. The latter, as every one knows, laboured during
much of his life under almost constant "hallucination"; yet "masculine
sense, strong logic," etc., were qualities quite as conspicuous in him as in
St. Paul.
Here, as throughout his essay, Mr. Rogers shows himself totally unable to
comprehend the mental condition of men in past ages. If an Apostle has a
dream or sees a vision, and interprets it according to the ideas of his time
and country, instead of according to the ideas of scientific England in the
nineteenth century Mr. Rogers thinks he must needs be mad: and when
according to the well-known law that mental excitement is contagious, 26
several persons are said to have concurred in interpreting some
phenomenon supernaturally, Mr. Rogers cannot see why so many people
should all go mad at once! "To go mad," in fact is his favourite designation
for a mental act, which nearly all the human race have habitually performed
in all ages; the act of mistaking subjective impressions for outward realities.
The disposition to regard all strange phenomena as manifestations of
supernatural power was universally prevalent in the first century of
Christianity, and long after. Neither greatness of intellect nor thoroughness
of scepticism gave exemption. Even Julius Caesar, the greatest practical
genius that ever lived, was somewhat superstitious, despite his atheism and
his Vigorous common-sense. It is too often argued that the prevalence of
scepticism in the Roman Empire must have made men scrupulous about
accepting miracles. By no means. Nothing but physical science ever drives
out miracles: mere doctrinal scepticism is powerless to do it. In the age of
the Apostles, little if any radical distinction was drawn between a miracle
and an ordinary occurrence. No one supposed a miracle to be an infraction
of the laws of nature, for no one had a clear idea that there were such things
as laws of nature. A miracle was simply an extraordinary act, exhibiting the
power of the person who performed it. Blank, indeed, would the evangelists
have looked, had any one told them what an enormous theory of systematic
meddling with nature was destined to grow out of their beautiful and artless
narratives.
The incapacity to appreciate this frame of mind renders the current
arguments in behalf of miracles utterly worthless. From the fact that Celsus

and others never denied the reality of the Christian miracles, it is commonly
inferred that those miracles must have actually happened. The same
argument would, however, equally apply to the miracles of Apollonius and
Simon Magus, for the Christians never denied the reality of these. What
these facts really prove is that the state of human intelligence was as I have
just described it: and the inference to be drawn from them is that no
miraculous account emanating from an author of such a period is worthy of
serious attention. When Mr. Rogers supposes that if the miracles had not
really happened they would have been challenged, he is assuming that a
state of mind existed in which it was possible for miracles to be challenged;
and thus commits an anachronism as monstrous as if he had attributed the
knowledge of some modern invention, such as steamboats, to those early
ages.
Mr. Rogers seems to complain of M. Renan for "quietly assuming" that
miracles are invariably to be rejected. Certainly a historian of the present
day who should not make such an assumption would betray his lack of the
proper qualifications for his profession. It is not considered necessary for
every writer to begin his work by setting out to prove the first principles of
historical criticism. They are taken for granted. And, as M. Renan justly
says, a miracle is one of those things which must be disbelieved until it is
proved. The onus probandi lies on the assertor of a fact which conflicts with
universal experience. Nevertheless, the great number of intelligent persons
who, even now, from dogmatic reasons, accept the New Testament
miracles, forbids that they should be passed over in silence like similar
phenomena elsewhere narrated. But, in the present state of historical
science, the arguing against miracles is, as Colet remarked of his friend
Erasmus's warfare against the Thomists and Scotists of Cambridge, "a
contest more necessary than glorious or difficult." To be satisfactorily
established, a miracle needs at least to be recorded by an eyewitness; and
the mental attainments of the witness need to be thoroughly known besides.
Unless he has a clear conception of the difference between the natural and
the unnatural order of events, his testimony, however unimpeachable on the
score of honesty, is still worthless. To say that this condition was fulfilled
by those who described the New Testament miracles, would be absurd. And
in the face of what German criticism has done for the early Christian
documents, it would be an excess of temerity to assert that any one of the
supernatural accounts contained in them rests on contemporary authority.

Of all history, the miraculous part should be attested by the strongest
testimony, whereas it is invariably attested by the weakest. And the paucity
of miracles wherever we have contemporary records, as in the case of
primitive Islamism, is a most significant fact.
In attempting to defend his principle of never accepting a miracle, M.
Renan has indeed got into a sorry plight, and Mr. Rogers, in controverting
him, has not greatly helped the matter. By stirring M. Renan's bemuddled
pool, Mr. Rogers has only bemuddled it the more. Neither of these excellent
writers seems to suspect that transmutation of species, the geologic
development of the earth, and other like phenomena do not present features
conflicting with ordinary experience. Sir Charles Lyell and Mr. Darwin
would be greatly astonished to be told that their theories of inorganic and
organic evolution involved any agencies not known to exist in the present
course of nature. The great achievement of these writers has been to show
that all past changes of the earth and its inhabitants are to be explained as
resulting from the continuous action of causes like those now in operation,
and that throughout there has been nothing even faintly resembling a
miracle. M. Renan may feel perfectly safe in extending his principle back to
the beginning of things; and Mr. Rogers's argument, even if valid against M.
Renan, does not help his own case in the least.
On some points, indeed, M. Renan has laid himself open to severe
criticism, and on other points he has furnished good handles for his
orthodox opponents. His views in regard to the authorship of the Fourth
Gospel and the Acts are not likely to be endorsed by many scholars; and his
revival of the rationalistic absurdities of Paulus merits in most instances all
that Mr. Rogers has said about it. As was said at the outset, orthodox
criticisms upon heterodox books are always welcome. They do excellent
service. And with the feeling which impels their authors to defend their
favourite dogmas with every available weapon of controversy I for one can
heartily sympathize. Their zeal in upholding what they consider the truth is
greatly to be respected and admired. But so much cannot always be said for
the mode of argumentation they adopt, which too often justifies M. Renan's
description, when he says, "Raisonnements triomphants sur des choses que
l'adversaire n'a pas dites, cris de victoire sur des erreurs qu'il n'a pas
commises, rien ne parait deloyal a celui qui croft tenir en main les interets
de la verite absolue."

August, 1866.

VI. DRAPER ON SCIENCE AND RELIGION. 27
Some twelve years ago, Dr. Draper published a bulky volume entitled "A
History of the Intellectual Development of Europe," in which his professed
purpose was to show that nations or races pass through certain definable
epochs of development, analogous to the periods of infancy, childhood,
youth, manhood, and old age in individuals. But while announced with due
formality, the carrying out of the argument was left for the most part to the
headings and running-titles of the several chapters, while in the text the
author peacefully meandered along down the stream of time, giving us a
succession of pleasant though somewhat threadbare anecdotes, as well as a
superabundance of detached and fragmentary opinions on divers historical
events, having apparently quite forgotten that he had started with a thesis to
prove. In the arrangement of his "running heads," some points were
sufficiently curious to require a word of explanation, as, for example, when
the early ages of Christianity were at one time labelled as an epoch of
progress and at another time as an epoch of decrepitude. But the argument
and the contents never got so far en rapport with each other as to clear up
such points as this. On the contrary, each kept on the even tenour of its way
without much regard to the other. From the titles of the chapters one was led
to expect some comprehensive theory of European civilization continuously
expounded. But the text merely showed a great quantity of superficial and
second-hand information, serving to illustrate the mental idiosyncrasies of
the author. Among these idiosyncrasies might be noted a very inadequate
understanding of the part played by Rome in the work of civilization, a
singular lack of appreciation of the political and philosophical achievements
of Greece under Athenian leadership, a strong hostility to the Catholic
Church, a curious disposition to overrate semi-barbarous, or abortive
civilizations, such as those of the old Asiatic and native American
communities, at the expense of Europe, and, above all, an undiscriminating
admiration for everything, great or small, that has ever worn the garb of
Islam or been associated with the career of the Saracens. The discovery that
in some respects the Mussulmans of the Middle Ages were more highly
cultivated than their Christian contemporaries, has made such an impression

on Dr. Draper's mind that it seems to be as hard for him to get rid of it as it
was for Mr. Dick to keep the execution of Charles I. out of his "Memorial."
Even in an essay on the "Civil Policy of America," the turbaned sage figures
quite prominently; and it is needless to add that he reappears, as large as
life, when the subject of discussion is the attitude of science toward
religion.
Speaking briefly with regard to this matter, we may freely admit that the
work done by the Arabs, in scientific inquiry as well as in the making of
events, was very considerable. It was a work, too, the value of which is not
commonly appreciated in the accounts of European history written for the
general reader, and we have no disposition to find fault with Dr. Draper for
describing it with enthusiasm. The philosophers of Bagdad and Cordova did
excellent service in keeping alive the traditions of Greek physical inquiry at
a time when Christian thinkers were too exclusively occupied with
transcendental speculations in theology and logic. In some departments, as
in chemistry and astronomy, they made original discoveries of considerable
value; and if we turn from abstract knowledge to the arts of life, it cannot be
denied that the mediaeval Mussulmans had reached a higher plane of
material comfort than their Christian contemporaries. In short, the work of
all kinds done by these people would furnish the judicious advocate of the
claims of the Semitic race with materials for a pleasing and instructive
picture. Dr. Draper, however, errs, though no doubt unintentionally, by so
presenting the case as to leave upon the reader's mind the impression that all
this scientific and practical achievement was the work of Islamism, and that
the Mohammedan civilization was of a higher type than the Christian. It is
with an apparent feeling of regret that he looks upon the ousting of the
Moors from dominion in Spain; but this is a mistaken view. As regards the
first point, it is a patent fact that scientific inquiry was conducted at the cost
of as much theological obloquy in the Mohammedan as in the Christian
world. It is true there was more actual tolerance of heresy on the part of
Moslem governments than was customary in Europe in those days; but this
is a superficial fact, which does not indicate any superiority in Moslem
popular sentiment. The caliphate or emirate was a truly absolute despotism,
such as the Papacy has never been, and the conduct of a sceptical emir in
encouraging scientific inquiry goes but little way toward proving anything
like a general prevalence of tolerance or of free-thinking. And this brings us
to the second point,—that Mohammedan civilization was, on the whole,

rather a skin-deep affair. It was superficial because of that extreme
severance between government and people which has never existed in
European nations within historic times, but which has always existed
among the principal races that have professed Moslemism. Nowhere in the
Mohammedan world has there ever been what we call a national life, and
nowhere do we find in its records any trace of such an intellectual impulse,
thrilling through every fibre of the people and begetting prodigious
achievements in art, poetry, and philosophy, as was awakened in Europe in
the thirteenth century and again in the fifteenth. Under the peculiar form of
unlimited material and spiritual despotism exemplified in the caliphate, a
few men may discover gases or comment on Aristotle, but no general
movement toward political progress or philosophical inquiry is possible.
Such a society is rigid and inorganic at bottom, whatever scanty signs of
flexibility and life it may show at the surface. There is no better illustration
of this, when well considered, than the fact that Moorish civilization
remained, politically and intellectually, a mere excrescence in Spain, after
having been fastened down over half the country for nearly eight centuries.
But we are in danger of forgetting our main theme, as Dr. Draper seems
to do, while we linger with him over these interesting wayside topics. We
may perhaps be excused, however, if we have not yet made any very
explicit allusion to the "Conflict between Religion and Science," because
this work seems to be in the main a repetition en petit of the "Intellectual
Development of Europe," and what we have said will apply as well to one
as to the other. In the little book, as in the big one, we hear a great deal
about the Arabs, and something about Columbus and Galileo, who made
men accept sundry truths in the teeth of clerical opposition; and, as before,
we float gently down the current of history without being over well-
informed as to the precise didactic purpose of our voyage. Here, indeed,
even our headings and running-titles do not materially help us, for though
we are supposed to be witnessing, or mayhap assisting in, a perennial
conflict between "science" and "religion," we are nowhere enlightened as to
what the cause or character of this conflict is, nor are we enabled to get a
good look at either of the parties to the strife. With regard to it "religion"
especially are we left in the dark. What this dreadful thing is towards which
"science" is always playing the part of Herakles towards the Lernaean
Hydra, we are left to gather from the course of the narrative. Yet, in a book

with any valid claim to clearsightedness, one would think such a point as
this ought to receive very explicit preliminary treatment.
The course of the narrative, however, leaves us in little doubt as to what
Dr. Draper means by a conflict between science and religion. When he
enlarges on the trite story of Galileo, and alludes to the more modern
quarrel between the Church and the geologists, and does this in the belief
that he is thereby illustrating an antagonism between religion and science, it
is obvious that he identifies the cause of the anti-geologists and the
persecutors of Galileo with the cause of religion. The word "religion" is to
him a symbol which stands for unenlightened bigotry or narrow-minded
unwillingness to look facts in the face. Such a conception of religion is
common enough, and unhappily a great deal has been done to strengthen it
by the very persons to whom the interests of religion are presumed to be a
professional care. It is nevertheless a very superficial conception, and no
book which is vitiated by it can have much philosophic value. It is simply
the crude impression which, in minds unaccustomed to analysis, is left by
the fact that theologians and other persons interested in religion are usually
alarmed at new scientific truths, and resist them with emotions so highly
wrought that they are not only incapable of estimating evidence, but often
also have their moral sense impaired, and fight with foul means when fair
ones fail. If we reflect carefully on this class of phenomena, we shall see
that something besides mere pride of opinion is involved in the struggle. At
the bottom of changing theological beliefs there lies something which men
perennially value, and for the sake of which they cling to the beliefs as long
as possible. That which they value is not itself a matter of belief, but it is a
matter of conduct; it is the searching after goodness,—after a higher life
than the mere satisfaction of individual desires. All animals seek for fulness
of life; but in civilized man this craving has acquired a moral significance,
and has become a spiritual aspiration; and this emotional tendency, more or
less strong in the human race, we call religious feeling or religion. Viewed
in this light, religion is not only something that mankind is never likely to
get rid of, but it is incomparably the most noble as well as the most useful
attribute of humanity.
Now, this emotional prompting toward completeness of life requires, of
course, that conduct should be guided, as far as possible, in accordance with
a true theory of the relations of man to the world in which he lives. Hence,
at any given era the religious feeling will always be found enlisted in behalf

of some theory of the universe. At any time, whatever may be their
shortcomings in practice, religious men will aim at doing right according to
their conceptions of the order of the world. If men's conceptions of the
order of nature remained constant, no apparent conflict between their
religious feelings and their knowledge need ever arise. But with the first
advance in our knowledge of nature the case is altered. New and strange
theories are naturally regarded with fear and dislike by persons who have
always been accustomed to find the sanction and justification of their
emotional prompting toward righteousness in old familiar theories which
the new ones are seeking to supplant. Such persons oppose the new doctrine
because their engrained mental habits compel them to believe that its
establishment will in some way lower men's standard of life, and make
them less careful of their spiritual welfare. This is the case, at all events,
when theologians oppose scientific conclusions on religious grounds, and
not simply from mental dulness or rigidity. And, in so far as it is religious
feeling which thus prompts resistance to scientific innovation, it may be
said, with some appearance of truth, that there is a conflict between religion
and science.
But there must always be two parties to a quarrel, and our statement has
to be modified as soon as we consider what the scientific innovator
impugns. It is not the emotional prompting toward righteousness, it is not
the yearning to live im Guten, Ganzen, Wahren, that he seeks to weaken;
quite likely he has all this as much at heart as the theologian who
vituperates him. Nor is it true that his discoveries, in spite of him, tend to
destroy this all-important mental attitude. It would be ridiculous to say that
the fate of religious feeling is really involved in the fate of grotesque
cosmogonies and theosophies framed in the infancy of men's knowledge of
nature; for history shows us quite the contrary. Religious feeling has
survived the heliocentric theory and the discoveries of geologists; and it
will be none the worse for the establishment of Darwinism. It is the merest
truism to say that religion strikes its roots deeper down into human nature
than speculative opinion, and is accordingly independent of any particular
set of beliefs. Since, then, the scientific innovator does not, either
voluntarily or involuntarily, attack religion, it follows that there can be no
such "conflict" as that of which Dr. Draper has undertaken to write the
history. The real contest is between one phase of science and another;
between the more-crude knowledge of yesterday and the less-crude

knowledge of to-day. The contest, indeed, as presented in history, is simply
the measure of the difficulty which men find in exchanging old views for
new ones. All along, the practical question has been, whether we should
passively acquiesce in the crude generalizations of our ancestors or venture
actively to revise them. But as for the religious sentiment, the perennial
struggle in which it has been engaged has not been with scientific inquiry,
but with the selfish propensities whose tendency is to make men lead the
lives of brutes.
The time is at hand when the interests of religion can no longer be
supposed to be subserved by obstinate adherence to crude speculations
bequeathed to us from pre-scientific antiquity. One good result of the
doctrine of evolution, which is now gaining sway in all departments of
thought, is the lesson that all our opinions must be held subject to continual
revision, and that with none of them can our religious interests be regarded
as irretrievably implicated. To any one who has once learned this lesson, a
book like Dr. Draper's can be neither interesting nor useful. He who has not
learned it can derive little benefit from a work which in its very title keeps
open an old and baneful source of error and confusion.

November. 1875.

VII. NATHAN THE WISE. 28
Le Christianisme Moderne, etude sur Lessing. Par Ernest Fontanes. Paris:
Bailliere. 1867.
The fame of Lessing is steadily growing. Year by year he is valued more
highly, and valued by a greater number of people. And he is destined, like
his master and forerunner Spinoza, to receive a yet larger share of men's
reverence and gratitude when the philosophic spirit which he lived to
illustrate shall have become in some measure the general possession of the
civilized part of mankind. In his own day, Lessing, though widely known
and greatly admired, was little understood or appreciated. He was known to
be a learned antiquarian, a terrible controversialist, and an incomparable
writer. He was regarded as a brilliant ornament to Germany; and a paltry
Duke of Brunswick thought a few hundred thalers well spent in securing the
glory of having such a man to reside at his provincial court. But the
majority of Lessing's contemporaries understood him as little perhaps as did
the Duke of Brunswick. If anything were needed to prove this, it would be
the uproar which was made over the publication of the "Wolfenbuttel
Fragments," and the curious exegesis which was applied to the poem of
"Nathan" on its first appearance. In order to understand the true character of
this great poem, and of Lessing's religious opinions as embodied in it, it
will be necessary first to consider the memorable theological controversy
which preceded it.
During Lessing's residence at Hamburg, he had come into possession of a
most important manuscript, written by Hermann Samuel Reimarus, a
professor of Oriental languages, and bearing the title of an "Apology for the
Rational Worshippers of God." Struck with the rigorous logic displayed in
its arguments, and with the quiet dignity of its style, while yet unable to
accept its most general conclusions, Lessing resolved to publish the
manuscript, accompanying it with his own comments and strictures.
Accordingly in 1774, availing himself of the freedom from censorship
enjoyed by publications drawn from manuscripts deposited in the Ducal
Library at Wolfenbuttel, of which he was librarian, Lessing published the
first portion of this work, under the title of "Fragments drawn from the

Papers of an Anonymous Writer." This first Fragment, on the "Toleration of
Deists," awakened but little opposition; for the eighteenth century, though
intolerant enough, did not parade its bigotry, but rather saw fit to disclaim
it. A hundred years before, Rutherford, in his "Free Disputation," had
declared "toleration of alle religions to bee not farre removed from
blasphemie." Intolerance was then a thing to be proud of, but in Lessing's
time some progress had been achieved, and men began to think it a good
thing to seem tolerant. The succeeding Fragments were to test this liberality
and reveal the flimsiness of the stuff of which it was made. When the
unknown disputant began to declare "the impossibility of a revelation upon
which all men can rest a solid faith," and when he began to criticize the
evidences of Christ's resurrection, such a storm burst out in the theological
world of Germany as had not been witnessed since the time of Luther. The
recent Colenso controversy in England was but a gentle breeze compared to
it. Press and pulpit swarmed with "refutations," in which weakness of
argument and scantiness of erudition were compensated by strength of
acrimony and unscrupulousness of slander. Pamphlets and sermons, says M.
Fontanes, "were multiplied, to denounce the impious blasphemer, who,
destitute alike of shame and of courage, had sheltered himself behind a
paltry fiction, in order to let loose upon society an evil spirit of unbelief."
But Lessing's artifice had been intended to screen the memory of Reimarus,
rather than his own reputation. He was not the man to quail before any
amount of human opposition; and it was when the tempest of invective was
just at its height that he published the last and boldest Fragment of all,—on
"the Designs of Jesus and his Disciples."
The publication of these Fragments led to a mighty controversy. The
most eminent, both for uncompromising zeal and for worldly position, of
those who had attacked Lessing, was Melchior Goetze, "pastor primarius"
at the Hamburg Cathedral. Though his name is now remembered only
because of his connection with Lessing, Goetze was not destitute of
learning and ability. He was a collector of rare books, an amateur in
numismatics, and an antiquarian of the narrow-minded sort. Lessing had
known him while at Hamburg, and had visited him so constantly as to draw
forth from his friends malicious insinuations as to the excellence of the
pastor's white wine. Doubtless Lessing, as a wise man, was not insensible to
the attractions of good Moselle; but that which he chiefly liked in this
theologian was his logical and rigorously consistent turn of mind. "He

always," says M. Fontanes, "cherished a holy horror of loose, inconsequent
thinkers; and the man of the past, the inexorable guardian of tradition,
appeared to him far more worthy of respect than the heterodox innovator
who stops in mid-course, and is faithful neither to reason nor to faith."
But when Lessing published these unhallowed Fragments, the hour of
conflict had sounded, and Goetze cast himself into the arena with a
boldness and impetuosity which Lessing, in his artistic capacity, could not
fail to admire. He spared no possible means of reducing his enemy to
submission. He aroused against him all the constituted authorities, the
consistories, and even the Aulic Council of the Empire, and he even
succeeded in drawing along with him the chief of contemporary rationalists,
Semler, who so far forgot himself as to declare that Lessing, for what he
had done, deserved to be sent to the madhouse. But with all Goetze's
orthodox valour, he was no match for the antagonist whom he had excited
to activity. The great critic replied with pamphlet after pamphlet, invincible
in logic and erudition, sparkling with wit, and irritating in their utter
coolness. Such pamphlets had not been seen since Pascal published the
"Provincial Letters." Goetze found that he had taken up arms against a
master in the arts of controversy, and before long he became well aware that
he was worsted. Having brought the case before the Aulic Council, which
consisted in great part of Catholics, the stout pastor, forgetting that
judgment had not yet been rendered, allowed himself to proclaim that all
who do not recognize the Bible as the only source of Christianity are not fit
to be called Christians at all. Lessing was not slow to profit by this unlucky
declaration. Questioned, with all manner of ferocious vituperation, by
Goetze, as to what sort of Christianity might have existed prior to and
independently of the New Testament canon, Lessing imperturbably
answered: "By the Christian religion I mean all the confessions of faith
contained in the collection of creeds of the first four centuries of the
Christian Church, including, if you wish it, the so-called creed of the
apostles, as well as the creed of Athanasius. The content of these
confessions is called by the earlier Fathers the regula fidei, or rule of faith.
This rule of faith is not drawn from the writings of the New Testament. It
existed before any of the books in the New Testament were written. It
sufficed not only for the first Christians of the age of the apostles, but for
their descendants during four centuries. And it is, therefore, the veritable
foundation upon which the Church of Christ is built; a foundation not based

upon Scripture." Thus, by a master-stroke, Lessing secured the adherence of
the Catholics constituting a majority of the Aulic Council of the Empire.
Like Paul before him, he divided the Sanhedrim. So that Goetze, foiled in
his attempts at using violence, and disconcerted by the patristic learning of
one whom he had taken to be a mere connoisseur in art and writer of plays
for the theatre, concluded that discretion was the surest kind of valour, and
desisted from further attacks.
Lessing's triumph came opportunely; for already the ministry of
Brunswick had not only confiscated the Fragments, but had prohibited him
from publishing anything more on the subject without first obtaining
express authority to do so. His last replies to Goetze were published at
Hamburg; and as he held himself in readiness to depart from Wolfenbuttel,
he wrote to several friends that he had conceived the design of a drama,
with which he would tear the theologians in pieces more than with a dozen
Fragments. "I will try and see," said he, "if they will let me preach in peace
from my old pulpit, the theatre." In this way originated "Nathan the Wise."
But it in no way answered to the expectations either of Lessing's friends or
of his enemies. Both the one and the other expected to see the controversy
with Goetze carried on, developed, and generalized in the poem. They
looked for a satirical comedy, in which orthodoxy should be held up for
scathing ridicule, or at least for a direful tragedy, the moral of which, like
that of the great poem of Lucretius, should be

"Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum."

Had Lessing produced such a poem, he would doubtless have gratified
his free-thinking friends and wreaked due literary vengeance upon his
theological persecutors. He would, perhaps, have given articulate
expression to the radicalism of his own time, and, like Voltaire, might have
constituted himself the leader of the age, the incarnation of its most
conspicuous tendencies. But Lessing did nothing of the kind; and the
expectations formed of him by friends and enemies alike show how little he
was understood by either. "Nathan the Wise" was, as we shall see, in the
eighteenth century an entirely new phenomenon; and its author was the
pioneer of a quite new religious philosophy.
Reimarus, the able author of the Fragments, in his attack upon the
evidences of revealed religion, had taken the same ground as Voltaire and

the old English deists. And when we have said this, we have sufficiently
defined his position, for the tenets of the deists are at the present day pretty
well known, and are, moreover, of very little vital importance, having long
since been supplanted by a more just and comprehensive philosophy.
Reimarus accepted neither miracles nor revelation; but in accordance with
the rudimentary state of criticism in his time, he admitted the historical
character of the earliest Christian records, and was thus driven to the
conclusion that those writings must have been fraudulently composed. How
such a set of impostors as the apostles must on this hypothesis have been,
should have succeeded in inspiring large numbers of their contemporaries
with higher and grander religious notions than had ever before been
conceived; how they should have laid the foundations of a theological
system destined to hold together the most enlightened and progressive
portion of human society for seventeen or eighteen centuries,—does not
seem to have entered his mind. Against such attacks as this, orthodoxy was
comparatively safe; for whatever doubt might be thrown upon some of its
leading dogmas, the system as a whole was more consistent and rational
than any of the theories which were endeavouring to supplant it. And the
fact that nearly all the great thinkers of the eighteenth century adopted this
deistic hypothesis, shows, more than anything else, the crudeness of their
psychological knowledge, and their utter lack of what is called "the
historical sense."
Lessing at once saw the weak point in Reimarus's argument, but his
method of disposing of it differed signally from that adopted by his
orthodox contemporaries. The more advanced German theologians of that
day, while accepting the New Testament records as literally historical, were
disposed to rationalize the accounts of miracles contained in them, in such a
way as to get rid of any presumed infractions of the laws of nature. This
method of exegesis, which reached its perfection in Paulus, is too well
known to need describing. Its unsatisfactory character was clearly shown,
thirty years ago, by Strauss, and it is now generally abandoned, though
some traces of it may still be seen in the recent works of Renan. Lessing
steadily avoided this method of interpretation. He had studied Spinoza to
some purpose, and the outlines of Biblical criticism laid down by that
remarkable thinker Lessing developed into a system wonderfully like that
now adopted by the Tubingen school. The cardinal results which Baur has
reached within the past generation were nearly all hinted at by Lessing, in

his commentaries on the Fragments. The distinction between the first three,
or synoptic gospels, and the fourth, the later age of the fourth, and the
method of composition of the first three, from earlier documents and from
oral tradition, are all clearly laid down by him. The distinct points of view
from which the four accounts were composed, are also indicated,—the
Judaizing disposition of "Matthew," the Pauline sympathies of "Luke," the
compromising or Petrine tendencies of "Mark," and the advanced Hellenic
character of "John." Those best acquainted with the results of modern
criticism in Germany will perhaps be most surprised at finding such
speculations in a book written many years before either Strauss or Baur
were born.
But such results, as might have been expected, did not satisfy the pastor
Goetze or the public which sympathized with him. The valiant pastor
unhesitatingly declared that he read the objections which Lessing opposed
to the Fragmentist with more horror and disgust than the Fragments
themselves; and in the teeth of the printed comments he declared that the
editor was craftily upholding his author in his deistical assault upon
Christian theology. The accusation was unjust, because untrue. There could
be no genuine cooperation between a mere iconoclast like Reimarus, and a
constructive critic like Lessing. But the confusion was not an unnatural one
on Goetze's part, and I cannot agree with M. Fontanes in taking it as
convincing proof of the pastor's wrong-headed perversity. It appears to me
that Goetze interpreted Lessing's position quite as accurately as M.
Fontanes. The latter writer thinks that Lessing was a Christian of the liberal
school since represented by Theodore Parker in this country and by M.
Reville in France; that his real object was to defend and strengthen the
Christian religion by relieving it of those peculiar doctrines which to the
freethinkers of his time were a stumbling-block and an offence. And, in
spite of Lessing's own declarations, he endeavours to show that he was an
ordinary theist,—a follower of Leibnitz rather than of Spinoza. But I do not
think he has made out his case. Lessing's own confession to Jacobi is
unequivocal enough, and cannot well be argued away. In that remarkable
conversation, held toward the close of his life, he indicates clearly enough
that his faith was neither that of the ordinary theist, the atheist, nor the
pantheist, but that his religious theory of the universe was identical with
that suggested by Spinoza, adopted by Goethe, and recently elaborated in
the first part of the "First Principles" of Mr. Herbert Spencer. Moreover,

while Lessing cannot be considered an antagonist of Christianity, neither
did he assume the attitude of a defender. He remained outside the
theological arena; looking at theological questions from the point of view of
a layman, or rather, as M. Cherbuliez has happily expressed it, of a Pagan.
His mind was of decidedly antique structure. He had the virtues of
paganism: its sanity, its calmness, and its probity; but of the tenderness of
Christianity, and its quenchless aspirations after an indefinable ideal, of that
feeling which has incarnated itself in Gothic cathedrals, masses and
oratorios, he exhibited but scanty traces. His intellect was above all things
self-consistent and incorruptible. He had that imperial good-sense which
might have formed the ideal alike of Horace and of Epictetus. No
clandestine preference for certain conclusions could make his reason
swerve from the straight paths of logic. And he examined and rejected the
conclusions of Reimarus in the same imperturbable spirit with which he
examined and rejected the current theories of the French classic drama.
Such a man can have had but little in common with a preacher like
Theodore Parker, or with a writer like M. Fontanes, whose whole book is a
noble specimen of lofty Christian eloquence. His attribute was light, not
warmth. He scrutinized, but did not attack or defend. He recognized the
transcendent merits of the Christian faith, but made no attempt to reinstate it
where it had seemed to suffer shock. It was therefore with the surest of
instincts, with that same instinct of self-preservation which had once led the
Church to anathematize Galileo, that Goetze. proclaimed Lessing a more
dangerous foe to orthodoxy than the deists who had preceded him.
Controversy, he doubtless thought, may be kept up indefinitely, and blows
given and returned forever; but before the steady gaze of that scrutinizing
eye which one of us shall find himself able to stand erect? It has become
fashionable to heap blame and ridicule upon those who violently defend an
antiquated order of things; and Goetze has received at the hands of posterity
his full share of abuse. His wrath contrasted unfavourably with Lessing's
calmness; and it was his misfortune to have taken up arms against an
opponent who always knew how to keep the laugh upon his own side. For
my own part I am constrained to admire the militant pastor, as Lessing
himself admired him. From an artistic point of view he is not an
uninteresting figure to contemplate. And although his attempts to awaken
persecution were reprehensible, yet his ardour in defending what he
believed to be vital truth is none the less to be respected. He had the

acuteness to see that Lessing's refutation of deism did not make him a
Christian, while the new views proposed as a substitute for those of
Reimarus were such as Goetze and his age could in no wise comprehend.
Lessing's own views of dogmatic religion are to be found in his work
entitled, "The Education of the Human Race." These views have since so
far become the veriest commonplaces of criticism, that one can hardly
realize that, only ninety years ago, they should have been regarded as
dangerous paradoxes. They may be summed up in the statement that all
great religions are good in their time and place; that, "as there is a soul of
goodness in things evil, so also there is a soul of truth in things erroneous."
According to Lessing, the successive phases of religious belief constitute
epochs in the mental evolution of the human race. So that the crudest forms
of theology, even fetishism, now to all appearance so utterly revolting, and
polytheism, so completely inadequate, have once been the best, the natural
and inevitable results of man's reasoning powers and appliances for
attaining truth. The mere fact that a system of religious thought has received
the willing allegiance of large masses of men shows that it must have
supplied some consciously felt want, some moral or intellectual craving.
And the mere fact that knowledge and morality are progressive implies that
each successive system may in due course of time be essentially modified
or finally supplanted. The absence of any reference to a future state of
retribution, in the Pentateuch and generally in the sacred writings of the
Jews, and the continual appeal to hopes and fears of a worldly character,
have been pronounced by deists an irremediable defect in the Jewish
religion. It is precisely this, however, says Lessing, which constitutes one of
its signal excellences. "That thy days may be long in the land which
Jehovah thy God giveth thee," was an appeal which the uncivilized Jew
could understand, and which could arouse him to action; while the need of a
future world, to rectify the injustices of this, not yet being felt, the doctrine
would have been of but little service. But in later Hebrew literature, many
magnificent passages revealed the despair felt by prophet and thinker over
the insoluble problem presented by the evil fate of the good and the
triumphant success of the wicked; and a solution was sought in the doctrine
of a Messianic kingdom, until Christianity with its proclamation of a future
life set the question entirely aside. By its appeal to what has been aptly
termed "other-worldliness," Christianity immeasurably intensified human
responsibility, besides rendering clearer its nature and limits. But according

to Lessing, yet another step remains to be taken; and here we come upon the
gulf which separates him from men of the stamp of Theodore Parker. For,
says Lessing, the appeal to unearthly rewards and punishments is after all
an appeal to our lower feelings; other-worldliness is but a refined
selfishness; and we are to cherish virtue for its own sake not because it will
lead us to heaven. Here is the grand principle of Stoicism. Lessing believed,
with Mr. Mill, that the less we think about getting rewarded either on earth
or in heaven the better. He was cast in the same heroic mould as Muhamad
Efendi, who when led to the stake exclaimed: "Though I have no hope of
recompense hereafter, yet the love of truth constraineth me to die in its
defence!"
With the truth or completeness of these views of Lessing we are not here
concerned; our business being not to expound our own opinions, but to
indicate as clearly as possible Lessing's position. Those who are familiar
with the general philosophical spirit of the present age, as represented by
writers otherwise so different as Littre and Sainte-Beuve, will best
appreciate the power and originality of these speculations. Coming in the
last century, amid the crudities of deism, they made a well-defined epoch.
They inaugurated the historical method of criticism, and they robbed the
spirit of intolerance of its only philosophical excuse for existing. Hitherto
the orthodox had been intolerant toward the philosophers because they
considered them heretics; and the philosophers had been intolerant toward
the orthodox because they considered them fools. To Voltaire it naturally
seemed that a man who could believe in the reality of miracles must be
what in French is expressively termed a sot. But henceforth, to the disciple
of Lessing, men of all shade of opinion were but the representatives and
exponents of different phases in the general evolution of human
intelligence, not necessarily to be disliked or despised if they did not
happen to represent the maturest phase.
Religion, therefore, from this point of view, becomes clearly demarcated
from theology. It consists no longer in the mental assent to certain
prescribed formulas, but in the moral obedience to the great rule of life; the
great commandment laid down and illustrated by the Founder of the
Christian religion, and concerning which the profoundest modern
philosophy informs us that the extent to which a society has learned to
conform to it is the test and gauge of the progress in civilization which that
society has achieved. The command "to love one another," to check the

barbarous impulses inherited from the pre-social state, while giving free
play to the beneficent impulses needful for the ultimate attainment of social
equilibrium,—or as Tennyson phrases it, to "move upward, working out the
beast, and letting the ape and tiger die,"—was, in Lessing's view, the task
set before us by religion. The true religious feeling was thus, in his opinion,
what the author of "Ecce Homo" has finely termed "the enthusiasm of
humanity." And we shall find no better language than that of the writer just
mentioned, in which to describe Lessing's conception of faith:—
"He who, when goodness is impressively put before him, exhibits an
instinctive loyalty to it, starts forward to take its side, trusts himself to it,
such a man has faith, and the root of the matter is in such a man. He may
have habits of vice, but the loyal and faithful instinct in him will place him
above many that practice virtue. He may be rude in thought and character,
but he will unconsciously gravitate toward what is right. Other virtues can
scarcely thrive without a fine natural organization and a happy training. But
the most neglected and ungifted of men may make a beginning with faith.
Other virtues want civilization, a certain amount of knowledge, a few
books; but in half-brutal countenances faith will light up a glimmer of
nobleness. The savage, who can do little else, can wonder and worship and
enthusiastically obey. He who cannot know what is right can know that
some one else knows; he who has no law may still have a master; he who is
incapable of justice may be capable of fidelity; he who understands little
may have his sins forgiven because he loves much."
Such was Lessing's religion, so far as it can be ascertained from the
fragmentary writings which he has left on the subject. Undoubtedly it
lacked completeness. The opinions which we have here set down, though
constituting something more than a mere theory of morality, certainly do
not constitute a complete theory of religion. Our valiant knight has
examined but one side of the shield,—the bright side, turned toward us,
whose marvellous inscriptions the human reason can by dint of unwearied
effort decipher. But the dark side, looking out upon infinity, and covered
with hieroglyphics the meaning of which we can never know, he has quite
forgotten to consider. Yet it is this side which genuine religious feeling ever
seeks to contemplate. It is the consciousness that there is about us an
omnipresent Power, in which we live and move and have our being,
eternally manifesting itself throughout the whole range of natural
phenomena, which has ever disposed men to be religious, and lured them

on in the vain effort to construct adequate theological systems. We may,
getting rid of the last traces of fetishism, eliminate arbitrary volition as
much as we will or can. But there still remains the consciousness of a divine
Life in the universe, of a Power which is beyond and above our
comprehension, whose goings out and comings in no man can follow. The
more we know, the more we reach out for that which we cannot know. And
who can realize this so vividly as the scientific philosopher? For our
knowledge being, according to the familiar comparison, like a brilliant
sphere, the more we increase it the greater becomes the number of
peripheral points at which we are confronted by the impenetrable darkness
beyond. I believe that this restless yearning,—vague enough in the
description, yet recognizable by all who, communing with themselves or
with nature, have felt it,—this constant seeking for what cannot be found,
this persistent knocking at gates which, when opened, but reveal others yet
to be passed, constitutes an element which no adequate theory of religion
can overlook. But of this we find nothing in Lessing. With him all is sunny,
serene, and pagan. Not the dim aisle of a vast cathedral, but the symmetrical
portico of an antique temple, is the worshipping-place into which he would
lead us.
But if Lessing's theology must be considered imperfect, it is none the less
admirable as far as it goes. With its peculiar doctrines of love and faith, it
teaches a morality far higher than any that Puritanism ever dreamed of. And
with its theory of development it cuts away every possible logical basis for
intolerance. It is this theology to which Lessing has given concrete
expression in his immortal poem of "Nathan."
The central idea of "Nathan" was suggested to Lessing by Boccaccio's
story of "The Three Rings," which is supposed to have had a Jewish origin.
Saladin, pretending to be inspired by a sudden, imperious whim, such as is
"not unbecoming in a Sultan," demands that Nathan shall answer him on the
spur of the moment which of the three great religions then known—
Judaism, Mohammedanism, Christianity—is adjudged by reason to be the
true one. For a moment the philosopher is in a quandary. If he does not
pronounce in favour of his own religion, Judaism, he stultifies himself; but
if he does not award the precedence to Mohammedanism, he will
apparently insult his sovereign. With true Oriental tact he escapes from the
dilemma by means of a parable. There was once a man, says Nathan, who
possessed a ring of inestimable value. Not only was the stone which it

contained incomparably fine, but it possessed the marvellous property of
rendering its owner agreeable both to God and to men. The old man
bequeathed this ring to that one of his sons whom he loved the most; and
the son, in turn, made a similar disposition of it. So that, passing from hand
to hand, the ring finally came into the possession of a father who loved his
three sons equally well. Unto which one should he leave it? To get rid of the
perplexity, he had two other rings made by a jeweller, exactly like the
original, and to each of his three sons he bequeathed one. Each then
thinking that he had obtained the true talisman, they began violently to
quarrel, and after long contention agreed to carry their dispute before the
judge. But the judge said: "Quarrelsome fellows! You are all three of you
cheated cheats. Your three rings are alike counterfeit. For the genuine ring is
lost, and to conceal the loss, your father had made these three substitutes."
At this unexpected denouement the Sultan breaks out in exclamations of
delight; and it is interesting to learn that when the play was brought upon
the stage at Constantinople a few years ago, the Turkish audience was
similarly affected. There is in the story that quiet, stealthy humour which is
characteristic of many mediaeval apologues, and in which Lessing himself
loved to deal. It is humour of the kind which hits the mark, and reveals the
truth. In a note upon this passage, Lessing himself said: "The opinion of
Nathan upon all positive religions has for a long time been my own." Let
him who has the genuine ring show it by making himself loved of God and
man. This is the central idea of the poem. It is wholly unlike the iconoclasm
of the deists, and, coming in the eighteenth century, it was like a veritable
evangel.
"Nathan" was not brought out until three years after Lessing's death, and
it kept possession of the stage for but a short time. In a dramatic point of
view, it has hardly any merits. Whatever plot there is in it is weak and
improbable. The decisive incidents seem to be brought in like the deus ex
machina of the later Greek drama. There is no movement, no action, no
development. The characters are poetically but not dramatically conceived.
Considered as a tragedy, "Nathan" would be weak; considered as a comedy,
it would be heavy. With full knowledge of these circumstances, Lessing
called it not a drama, but a dramatic poem; and he might have called it still
more accurately a didactic poem, for the only feature which it has in
common with the drama is that the personages use the oratio directa.

"Nathan" is a didactic poem: it is not a mere philosophic treatise written
in verse, like the fragments of Xenophanes. Its lessons are conveyed
concretely and not abstractly; and its characters are not mere lay figures, but
living poetical conceptions. Considered as a poem among classic German
poems, it must rank next to, though immeasurably below, Goethe's "Faust."
There are two contrasted kinds of genius, the poetical and the
philosophical; or, to speak yet more generally, the artistic and the critical.
The former is distinguished by a concrete, the latter by an abstract,
imagination. The former sees things synthetically, in all their natural
complexity; the latter pulls things to pieces analytically, and scrutinizes
their relations. The former sees a tree in all its glory, where the latter sees an
exogen with a pair of cotyledons. The former sees wholes, where the latter
sees aggregates.
Corresponding with these two kinds of genius there are two classes of
artistic productions. When the critical genius writes a poem or a novel, he
constructs his plot and his characters in conformity to some prearranged
theory, or with a view to illustrate some favourite doctrine. When he paints
a picture, he first thinks how certain persons would look under certain given
circumstances, and paints them accordingly. When he writes a piece of
music, he first decides that this phrase expresses joy, and that phrase
disappointment, and the other phrase disgust, and he composes accordingly.
We therefore say ordinarily that he does not create, but only constructs and
combines. It is far different with the artistic genius, who, without stopping
to think, sees the picture and hears the symphony with the eyes and ears of
imagination, and paints and plays merely what he has seen and heard. When
Dante, in imagination, arrived at the lowest circle of hell, where traitors like
Judas and Brutus are punished, he came upon a terrible frozen lake, which,
he says,—

"Ever makes me shudder at the sight of frozen pools."

I have always considered this line a marvellous instance of the intensity
of Dante's imagination. It shows, too, how Dante composed his poem. He
did not take counsel of himself and say: "Go to, let us describe the traitors
frozen up to their necks in a dismal lake, for that will be most terrible." But
the picture of the lake, in all its iciness, with the haggard faces staring out
from its glassy crust, came unbidden before his mind with such intense

reality that, for the rest of his life, he could not look at a frozen pool without
a shudder of horror. He described it exactly as he saw it; and his description
makes us shudder who read it after all the centuries that have intervened. So
Michael Angelo, a kindred genius, did not keep cutting and chipping away,
thinking how Moses ought to look, and what sort of a nose he ought to
have, and in what position his head might best rest upon his shoulders. But,
he looked at the rectangular block of Carrara marble, and beholding Moses
grand and lifelike within it, knocked away the environing stone, that others
also might see the mighty figure. And so Beethoven, an artist of the same
colossal order, wrote out for us those mysterious harmonies which his ear
had for the first time heard; and which, in his mournful old age, it heard
none the less plainly because of its complete physical deafness. And in this
way Shakespeare wrote his "Othello"; spinning out no abstract thoughts
about jealousy and its fearful effects upon a proud and ardent nature, but
revealing to us the living concrete man, as his imperial imagination had
spontaneously fashioned him.
Modern psychology has demonstrated that this is the way in which the
creative artistic imagination proceeds. It has proved that a vast portion of all
our thinking goes on unconsciously; and that the results may arise into
consciousness piecemeal and gradually, checking each other as they come;
or that they may come all at once, with all the completeness and
definiteness of perceptions presented from without. The former is the case
with the critical, and the latter with the artistic intellect. And this we
recognize imperfectly when we talk of a genius being "inspired." All of us
probably have these two kinds of imagination to a certain extent. It is only
given to a few supremely endowed persons like Goethe to possess them
both to an eminent degree. Perhaps of no other man can it be said that he
was a poet of the first order, and as great a critic as poet.
It is therefore apt to be a barren criticism which studies the works of
creative geniuses in order to ascertain what theory lies beneath them. How
many systems of philosophy, how many subtle speculations, have we not
seen fathered upon Dante, Cervantes, Shakespeare, and Goethe! Yet their
works are, in a certain sense, greater than any systems. They partake of the
infinite complexity and variety of nature, and no more than nature itself can
they be narrowed down to the limits of a precise formula.

Lessing was wont to disclaim the title of poet; but, as Goethe said, his
immortal works refute him. He had not only poetical, but dramatic genius;
and his "Emilia Galotti" has kept the stage until to-day. Nevertheless, he
knew well what he meant when he said that he was more of a critic than a
poet. His genius was mainly of the critical order; and his great work,
"Nathan the Wise," was certainly constructed rather than created. It was
intended to convey a doctrine, and was carefully shaped for the purpose.
And when we have pronounced it the greatest of all poems that have been
written for a set purpose, and admit of being expressed in a definite
formula, we have classified it with sufficient accuracy.
For an analysis of the characters in the poem, nothing can be better than
the essay by Kuno Fischer, appended to the present volume. The work of
translation has been admirably done; and thanks are due to Miss
Frothingham for her reproduction of this beautiful poem.

June, 1868.

VIII. HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES. 29
History, says Sainte-Beuve, is in great part a set of fables which people
agree to believe in. And, on reading books like the present, one certainly
needs a good deal of that discipline acquired by long familiarity with vexed
historical questions, in order to check the disposition to accept the great
critic's ironical remark in sober earnest. Much of what is currently
accredited as authentic history is in fact a mixture of flattery and calumny,
myth and fable. Yet in this set of fables, whatever may have been the case in
past times, people will no longer agree to believe. During the present
century the criticism of recorded events has gone far toward assuming the
developed and systematized aspect of a science, and canons of belief have
been established, which it is not safe to disregard. Great occurrences, such
as the Trojan War and the Siege of Thebes, not long ago faithfully described
by all historians of Greece, have been found to be part of the common
mythical heritage of the Aryan nations. Achilleus and Helena, Oidipous and
Iokasta, Oinone and Paris, have been discovered in India and again in
Scandinavia, and so on, until their nonentity has become the legitimate
inference from their very ubiquity. Legislators like Romulus and Numa,
inventors like Kadmos, have evaporated into etymologies. Whole legions of
heroes, dynasties of kings, and adulteresses as many as Dante saw borne on
the whirlwind, have vanished from the face of history, and terrible has been
the havoc in the opening pages of our chronological tables. Nor is it
primitive history alone which has been thus metamorphosed. Characters
unduly exalted or defamed by party spirit are daily being set before us in
their true, or at least in a truer, light. What Mr. Froude has done for Henry
VIII. we know; and he might have done more if he had not tried to do so
much. Humpbacked Richard turns out to have been one of the handsomest
kings that ever sat on the throne of England. Edward I., in his dealings with
Scotland, is seen to have been scrupulously just; while the dignity of the
patriot hero Wallace has been somewhat impaired. Elizabeth is proved to
have befriended the false Mary Stuart much longer than was consistent with
her personal safety. Eloquent Cicero has been held up as an object of
contempt; and even weighty Tacitus has been said to owe much of his

reputation to his ability to give false testimony with a grave face. It has
lately been suspected that gloomy Tiberius, apart from his gloominess, may
have been rather a good fellow; not so licentious as puritanical, not cruel so
much as exceptionally merciful,—a rare general, a sagacious statesman, and
popular to boot with all his subjects save the malignant oligarchy which he
consistently snubbed, and which took revenge on him by writing his life.
And, to crown all, even Catiline, abuser of our patience, seducer of vestal
nuns, and drinker of children's blood,—whose very name suggests murder,
incest, and robbery,—even Catiline has found an able defender in Professor
Beesly. It is claimed that Catiline was a man of great abilities and average
good character, a well-calumniated leader of the Marian party which Caesar
afterwards led to victory, and that his famous plot for burning Rome never
existed save in the unscrupulous Ciceronian fancy. And those who think it
easy to refute these conclusions of Professor Beesly had better set to work
and try it. Such are a few of the surprising questions opened by recent
historical research; and in the face of them the public is quite excusable if it
declares itself at a loss what to believe.
These, however, are cases in which criticism has at least made some
show of ascertaining the truth and detecting the causes of the prevalent
misconception. That men like Catiline and Tiberius should have had their
characters blackened is quite easily explicable. President Johnson would
have little better chance of obtaining justice at the hands of posterity, if the
most widely read history of his administration should happen to be written
by a radical member of the Rump Congress. But the cases which Mr.
Delepierre invites us to contemplate are of a different character. They come
neither under the head of myths nor under that of misrepresentations. Some
of them are truly vexed questions which it may perhaps always be
impossible satisfactorily to solve. Others may be dealt with more easily, but
afford no clew to the origin of the popularly received error. Let us briefly
examine a few of Mr. Delepierre's "difficulties." And first, because simplest,
we will take the case of the Alexandrian Library.
Every one has heard how Amrou, after his conquest of Egypt, sent to
Caliph Omar to know what should be done with the Alexandrian Library.
"If the books agree with the Koran," said the Caliph, "they are superfluous;
if they contradict it, they are damnable; in either case, destroy them." So the
books were taken and used to light the fires which heated water for the
baths; and so vast was the number that, used in this way, they lasted six

months! All this happened because John the Grammarian was over-anxious
enough to request that the books might be preserved, and thus drew
Amrou's attention to them. Great has been the obloquy poured upon Omar
for this piece of vandalism, and loud has been the mourning over the
treasures of ancient science and literature supposed to have been
irrecoverably lost in this ignominious conflagration Theologians, Catholic
and Protestant, have been fond of quoting it as an instance of the hostility of
Mahometanism to knowledge, and we have even heard an edifying sermon
preached about it. On seeing the story put to such uses, one feels sometimes
like using the ad hominem argument, and quoting the wholesale destruction
of pagan libraries under Valens, the burning of books by the Latin stormers
of Constantinople, the alleged annihilation of 100,000 volumes by Genoese
crusaders at Tripoli, the book-burning exploits of Torquemada, the bonfire
of 80,000 valuable Arabic manuscripts, lighted up in the square of Granada
by order of Cardinal Ximenes, and the irreparable cremation of Aztec
writings by the first Christian bishops of Mexico. These examples, with
perhaps others which do not now occur to us, might be applied in just
though ungentle retort by Mahometan doctors. Yet the most direct rejoinder
would probably not occur to them: the Alexandrian Library was NOT
destroyed by the orders of Omar, and the whole story is a figment!
The very pithiness of it, so characteristic of the excellent but bigoted
Omar, is enough to cast suspicion upon it. De Quincey tells us that "if a
saying has a proverbial fame, the probability is that it was never said." How
many amusing stories stand a chance of going down to posterity as the
inventions of President Lincoln, of which, nevertheless, he is doubtless
wholly innocent! How characteristic was Caesar's reply to the frightened
pilot! Yet in all probability Caesar never made it.
Now for the evidence. Alexandria was captured by Armrou in 640. The
story of the burning of the library occurs for the first time in the works of
Abulpharagius, who flourished in 1264. Six hundred years had elapsed. It is
as if a story about the crusades of Louis IX. were to be found for the first
time in the writings of Mr. Bancroft. The Byzantine historians were
furiously angry with the Saracens; why did they, one and all, neglect to
mention such an outrageous piece of vandalism? Their silence must be
considered quite conclusive. Moreover we know "that the caliphs had
forbidden under severe penalties the destruction" of Jewish and Christian
books, a circumstance wholly inconsistent with this famous story. And

finally, what a mediaeval recklessness of dates is shown in lugging into the
story John the Grammarian, who was dead and in his grave when
Alexandria was taken by Amrou!
But the chief item of proof remains to be mentioned. The Saracens did
not burn the library, because there was no library there for them to burn! It
had been destroyed just two hundred and fifty years before by a rabble of
monks, incited by the patriarch Theophilus, who saw in such a vast
collection of pagan literature a perpetual insult and menace to religion. In
the year 390 this turbulent bigot sacked the temple of Serapis, where the
books were kept, and drove out the philosophers who lodged there. Of this
violent deed we have contemporary evidence, for Orosius tells us that less
than fifteen years afterwards, while passing through Alexandria, he saw the
empty shelves. This fact disposes of the story.
Passing from Egypt to France, and from the seventh century to the
fifteenth, we meet with a much more difficult problem. That Jeanne d'Arc
was burnt at the stake, at Rouen, on the 30th of May, 1431, and her bones
and ashes thrown into the Seine, is generally supposed to be as indisputable
as any event in modern history. Such is, however, hardly the case. Plausible
evidence has been brought to prove that Jeanne d'Arc was never burnt at the
stake, but lived to a ripe age, and was even happily married to a nobleman
of high rank and reputation. We shall abridge Mr. Delepierre's statement of
this curious case.
In the archives of Metz, Father Vignier discovered the following
remarkable entry: "In the year 1436, Messire Phlin Marcou was Sheriff of
Metz, and on the 20th day of May of the aforesaid year came the maid
Jeanne, who had been in France, to La Grange of Ormes, near St. Prive, and
was taken there to confer with any one of the sieurs of Metz, and she called
herself Claude; and on the same day there came to see her there her two
brothers, one of whom was a knight, and was called Messire Pierre, and the
other 'petit Jehan,' a squire, and they thought that she had been burnt, but as
soon as they saw her they recognized her and she them. And on Monday,
the 21st day of the said month, they took their sister with them to Boquelon,
and the sieur Nicole, being a knight, gave her a stout stallion of the value of
thirty francs, and a pair of saddle-cloths; the sieur Aubert Boulle, a riding-
hood, the sieur Nicole Groguet, a sword; and the said maiden mounted the
said horse nimbly, and said several things to the sieur Nicole by which he

well understood that it was she who had been in France; and she was
recognized by many tokens to be the maid Jeanne of France who escorted
King Charles to Rheims, and several declared that she had been burnt in
Normandy, and she spoke mostly in parables. She afterwards returned to the
town of Marnelle for the feast of Pentecost, and remained there about three
weeks, and then set off to go to Notre Dame d'Alliance. And when she
wished to leave, several of Metz went to see her at the said Marnelle and
gave her several jewels, and they knew well that she was the maid Jeanne of
France; and she then went to Erlon, in the Duchy of Luxembourg, where
she was thronged,.... and there was solemnized the marriage of Monsieur de
Hermoise, knight, and the said maid Jeanne, and afterwards the said sieur
Hermoise, with his wife, the Maid, came to live at Metz, in the house the
said sieur had, opposite St. Seglenne, and remained there until it pleased
them to depart."
This is surprising enough; but more remains behind. Dining shortly
afterwards with M. des Armoises, member of one of the oldest families in
Lorraine, Father Vignier was invited to look over the family archives, that
he might satisfy his curiosity regarding certain ancestors of his host. And on
looking over the family register, what was his astonishment at finding a
contract of marriage between Robert des Armoises, Knight, and Jeanne
d'Arcy, the so-called Maid of Orleans!
In 1740, some time after these occurrences, there was found, in the town
hall of Orleans, a bill of one Jacques l'Argentier, of the year 1436, in which
mention is made of a small sum paid for refreshments furnished to a
messenger who had brought letters from the Maid of Orleans, and of twelve
livres given to Jean du Lis, brother of Jeanne d'Arc, to help him pay the
expenses of his journey back to his sister. Then come two charges which we
shall translate literally. "To the sieur de Lis, 18th October, 1436, for a
journey which he made through the said city while on his way to the Maid,
who was then at Erlon in Luxembourg, and for carrying letters from Jeanne
the Maid to the King at Loicher, where he was then staying, six livres." And
again: "To Renard Brune, 25th July, 1435, at evening, for paying the hire of
a messenger who was carrying letters from Jeanne the Maid, and was on his
way to William Beliers, bailiff of Troyes, two livres."
As no doubt has been thrown upon the genuineness of these documents,
it must be considered established that in 1436, five years after the public

execution at Rouen, a young woman, believed to be the real Jeanne d'Arc,
was alive in Lorraine and was married to a M. Hermoises or Armoises. She
may, of course, have been an impostor; but in this case it is difficult to
believe that her brothers, Jean and Pierre, and the people of Lorraine, where
she was well known, would not have detected the imposture at once. And
that Jean du Lis, during a familiar intercourse of at least several months, as
indicated in the above extracts, should have continued to mistake a stranger
for his own sister, with whom he had lived from childhood, seems a very
absurd supposition. Nor is it likely that an impostor would have exposed
herself to such a formidable test. If it had been a bold charlatan who, taking
advantage of the quite general belief, to which we have ample testimony,
that there was something more in the execution at Rouen than was allowed
to come to the surface, had resolved to usurp for herself the honours due to
the woman who had saved France, she would hardly have gone at the outset
to a part of the country where the real Maid had spent nearly all her life.
Her instant detection and exposure, perhaps a disgraceful punishment,
would have been inevitable. But if this person were the real Jeanne, escaped
from prison or returning from an exile dictated by prudence, what should
she have done but go straightway to the haunts of her childhood, where she
might meet once more her own friends and family?
But the account does not end here. M. Wallon, in his elaborate history of
Jeanne d'Arc, states that in 1436 the supposed Maid visited France, and
appears to have met some of the men-at-arms with whom she had fought. In
1439 she came to Orleans, for in the accounts of the town we read, "July 28,
for ten pints of wine presented to Jeanne des Armoises, 14 sous." And on
the day of her departure, the citizens of Orleans, by a special decree of the
town-council, presented her with 210 livres, "for the services which she had
rendered to the said city during the siege." At the same time the annual
ceremonies for the repose of her soul were, quite naturally, suppressed.
Now we may ask if it is at all probable that the people of Orleans, who, ten
years before, during the siege, must have seen the Maid day after day, and
to whom her whole appearance must have been perfectly familiar, would
have been likely to show such attentions as these to an impostor? "In 1440,"
says Mr. Delepierre, "the people so firmly believed that Jeanne d'Arc was
still alive, and that another had been sacrificed in her place, that an
adventuress who endeavoured to pass herself off as the Maid of Orleans
was ordered by the government to be exposed before the public on the

marble stone of the palace hall, in order to prove that she was an impostor.
Why were not such measures taken against the real Maid of Orleans, who is
mentioned in so many public documents, and who took no pains to hide
herself?"
There is yet another document bearing on this case, drawn from the
accounts of the auditor of the Orleans estate, in the year 1444, which we
will here translate. "An island on the River Loire is restored to Pierre du
Lis, knight, 'on account of the supplication of the said Pierre, alleging that
for the acquittal of his debt of loyalty toward our Lord the King and M. the
Duke of Orleans, he left his country to come to the service of the King and
M. the Duke, accompanied by his sister, Jeanne the Maid, with whom,
down to the time of her departure, and since, unto the present time, he has
exposed his body and goods in the said service, and in the King's wars, both
in resisting the former enemies of the kingdom who were besieging the
town of Orleans, and since then in divers enterprises,' &c., &c." Upon this
Mr. Delepierre justly remarks that the brother might have presented his
claims in a much stronger light, "if in 1444, instead of saying 'up to the time
of her departure,' he had brought forward the martyrdom of his sister, as
having been the means of saving France from the yoke of England." The
expression here cited and italicized in the above translation, may indeed be
held to refer delicately to her death, but the particular French phrase
employed, "jusques a son absentement," apparently excludes such an
interpretation. The expression, on the other hand, might well refer to
Jeanne's departure for Lorraine, and her marriage, after which there is no
evidence that she returned to France, except for brief visits. Thus a notable
amount of evidence goes to show that Jeanne was not put to death in 1431,
as usually supposed, but was alive, married, and flourishing in 1444. Upon
this supposition, certain alleged difficulties in the traditional account are
easily disposed of. Mr. Delepierre urges upon the testimony of Perceval de
Cagny, that at the execution in Rouen "the victim's face was covered when
walking to the stake, while at the same time a spot had been chosen for the
execution that permitted the populace to have a good view. Why this
contradiction? A place is chosen to enable the people to see everything, but
the victim is carefully hidden from their sight." Whether otherwise
explicable or not, this fact is certainly consistent with the hypothesis that
some other victim was secretly substituted for Jeanne by the English
authorities.

We have thus far contented ourselves with presenting and re-enforcing
Mr. Delepierre's statement of the case. It is now time to interpose a little
criticism. We must examine our data somewhat more closely, for vagueness
of conception allows a latitude to belief which accuracy of conception
considerably restricts.
On the hypothesis of her survival, where was Jeanne, and what was she
doing all the time from her capture before Compiegne, May 24, 1430, until
her appearance at Metz, May 20, 1436? Mr. Delepierre reminds us that the
Duke of Bedford, regent of France for the English king, died in 1435, and
"that most probably Jeanne d'Arc was released from prison after this event."
Now this supposition lands us in a fatally absurd conclusion. We are, in
fact, asked to believe that the English, while holding Jeanne fast in their
clutches, gratuitously went through the horrid farce of burning some one
else in her stead; and that, after having thus inexplicably behaved, they
further stultified themselves by letting her go scot-free, that their
foolishness might be duly exposed and confuted. Such a theory is childish.
If Jeanne d'Arc ever survived the 30th May, 1431, it was because she
escaped from prison and succeeded in hiding herself until safer times. When
could she have done this? In a sortie from Compiegne, May 24, 1430, she
was thrown from her horse by a Picard archer and taken prisoner by the
Bastard of Vendome, who sold her to John of Luxembourg. John kept her in
close custody at Beaulieu until August. While there, she made two attempts
to escape; first, apparently, by running out through a door, when she was at
once caught by the guards; secondly, by jumping from a high window, when
the shock of the fall was so great that she lay insensible on the ground until
discovered. She was then removed to Beaurevoir, where she remained until
the beginning of November. By this time, Philip "the Good," Duke of
Burgundy, had made up his mind to sell her to the English for 10,000
francs; and Jeanne was accordingly taken to Arras, and thence to Cotoy,
where she was delivered to the English by Philip's officers. So far, all is
clear; but here it may be asked, WAS she really delivered to the English, or
did Philip, pocketing his 10,000 francs, cheat and defraud his allies with a
counterfeit Jeanne? Such crooked dealing would have been in perfect
keeping with his character. Though a far more agreeable and gentlemanly
person, he was almost as consummate and artistic a rascal as his great-
great-great-grandson and namesake, Philip II. of Spain. His duplicity was so
unfathomable and his policy so obscure, that it would be hardly safe to

affirm a priori that he might not, for reasons best known to himself, have
played a double game with his friend the Duke of Bedford. On this
hypothesis, he would of course keep Jeanne in close custody so long as
there was any reason for keeping his treachery secret. But in 1436, after the
death of Bedford and the final expulsion of the English from France, no
harm could come from setting her at liberty.
But as soon as we cease to reason a priori, this is seen to be, after all, a
lame hypothesis. No one can read the trial of Jeanne at Rouen, the questions
that were put to her and the answers which she made, without being
convinced that we are here dealing with the genuine Maid and not with a
substitute. The first step of a counterfeit Jeanne would have naturally been
to save herself from the flames by revealing her true character. Moreover,
among the multitudes who saw her during her cruel trial, it is not likely that
none were acquainted with the true Jeanne's voice and features. We must
therefore conclude that Jeanne d'Arc was really consigned to the tender
mercies of the English. About the 21st of November she was taken on
horseback, strongly guarded, from Cotoy to Rouen, where the trial began
January 9, 1431. On the 21st of February she appeared before the court; on
the 13th of March she was examined in the prison by an inquisitor; and on
May 24, the Thursday after Pentecost, upon a scaffold conspicuously placed
in the Cemetery of St. Ouen, she publicly recanted, abjuring her "heresies"
and asking the Church's pardon for her "witchcraft." We may be sure that
the Church dignitaries would not knowingly have made such public display
of a counterfeit Jeanne; nor could they well have been deceived themselves
under such circumstances. It may indeed be said, to exhaust all possible
suppositions, that a young girl wonderfully similar in feature and voice to
Jeanne d'Arc was palmed off upon the English by Duke Philip, and
afterwards, on her trial, comported herself like the Maid, trusting in this
recantation to effect her release. But we consider such an hypothesis
extremely far-fetched, nor does it accord with the events which immediately
followed. It seems hardly questionable that it was the real Jeanne who
publicly recanted on the 24th of May. This was only six days before the
execution. Four days after, on Monday the 28th, it was reported that Jeanne
had relapsed, that she had, in defiance of the Church's prohibition, clothed
herself in male attire, which had been left in a convenient place by the
authorities, expressly to test her sincerity. On the next day but one, the

woman purporting to be the Maid of Orleans was led out, with her face
carefully covered, and burnt at the stake.
Here is the first combination of circumstances which bears a suspicious
look. It disposes of our Burgundy hypothesis, for a false Jeanne, after
recanting to secure her safety, would never have stultified herself by such a
barefaced relapse. But the true Jeanne, after recanting, might certainly have
escaped. Some compassionate guard, who before would have scrupled to
assist her while under the ban of the Church, might have deemed himself
excusable for lending her his aid after she had been absolved. Postulating,
then, that Jeanne escaped from Rouen between the 24th and the 28th, how
shall we explain what happened immediately afterward?
The English feared Jeanne d'Arc as much as they hated her. She had, by
her mere presence at the head of the French army, turned their apparent
triumph into ignominious defeat. In those days the true psychological
explanation of such an event was by no means obvious. While the French
attributed the result to celestial interposition in their behalf, the English,
equally ready to admit its supernatural character, considered the powers of
hell rather than those of heaven to have been the prime instigators. In their
eyes Jeanne was a witch, and it was at least their cue to exhibit her as such.
They might have put her to death when she first reached Rouen. Some
persons, indeed, went so far as to advise that she should be sewed up in a
sack and thrown at once into the Seine; but this was not what the authorities
wanted. The whole elaborate trial, and the extorted recantation, were
devised for the purpose of demonstrating her to be a witch, and thus
destroying her credit with the common people. That they intended
afterwards to burn her cannot for an instant be doubted; that was the only fit
consummation for their evil work.
Now when, at the end of the week after Pentecost, the bishops and
inquisitors at Rouen learned, to their dismay, that their victim had escaped,
what were they to do? Confess that they had been foiled, and create a panic
in the army by the news that their dreaded enemy was at liberty? Or boldly
carry out their purposes by a fictitious execution, trusting in the authority
which official statements always carry, and shrewdly foreseeing that, after
her recantation, the disgraced Maid would no more venture to claim for
herself the leadership of the French forces? Clearly, the latter would have
been the wiser course. We may assume, then, that, by the afternoon of the

28th, the story of the relapse was promulgated, as a suitable preparation for
what was to come; and that on the 30th the poor creature who had been
hastily chosen to figure as the condemned Maid was led out, with face
closely veiled, to perish by a slow fire in the old market-place. Meanwhile
the true Jeanne would have made her way, doubtless, in what to her was the
effectual disguise of a woman's apparel, to some obscure place of safety,
outside of doubtful France and treacherous Burgundy, perhaps in Alsace or
the Vosges. Here she would remain, until the final expulsion of the English
and the conclusion of a treaty of peace in 1436 made it safe for her to show
herself; when she would naturally return to Lorraine to seek her family.
The comparative obscurity in which she must have remained for the rest
of her life, otherwise quite inexplicable on any hypothesis of her survival, is
in harmony with the above-given explanation. The ingratitude of King
Charles towards the heroine who had won him his crown is the subject of
common historical remark. M. Wallon insists upon the circumstance that,
after her capture at Compiegne, no attempts were made by the French Court
to ransom her or to liberate her by a bold coup de main. And when, at
Rouen, she appealed in the name of the Church to the Pope to grant her a
fair trial, not a single letter was written by the Archbishop of Rheims, High
Chancellor of France, to his suffragan, the Bishop of Beauvais, demanding
cognizance of the proceedings. Nor did the King make any appeal to the
Pope, to prevent the consummation of the judicial murder. The Maid was
deliberately left to her fate. It is upon her enemies at court, La Tremouille
and Regnault de Chartres, that we must lay part of the blame for this wicked
negligence. But it is also probable that the King, and especially his clerical
advisers, were at times almost disposed to acquiesce in the theory of
Jeanne's witchcraft. Admire her as they might, they could not help feeling
that in her whole behaviour there was something uncanny; and, after having
reaped the benefits of her assistance, they were content to let her shift for
herself. This affords the clew to the King's inconsistencies. It may be
thought sufficient to explain the fact that Jeanne is said to have received
public testimonials at Orleans, while we have no reason to suppose that she
visited Paris. It may help to dispose of the objection that she virtually
disappears from history after the date of the tragedy at Rouen.
Nevertheless, this last objection is a weighty one, and cannot easily be
got rid of. It appears to me utterly incredible that, if Jeanne d'Arc had really
survived, we should find no further mention of her than such as haply

occurs in one or two town-records and dilapidated account-books. If she
was alive in 1436, and corresponding with the King, some of her friends at
court must have got an inkling of the true state of things. Why did they not
parade their knowledge, to the manifest discomfiture of La Tremouille and
his company? Or why did not Pierre du Lis cause it to be proclaimed that
the English were liars, his sister being safely housed in Metz?
In the mere interests of historical criticism, we have said all that we could
in behalf of Mr. Delepierre's hypothesis. But as to the facts upon which it
rests, we may remark, in the first place, that the surname Arc or "Bow" was
not uncommon in those days, while the Christian name Jeanne was and now
is the very commonest of French names. There might have been a hundred
Jeanne d'Arcs, all definable as pucelle or maid, just as we say "spinster": we
even read of one in the time of the Revolution. We have, therefore, no doubt
that Robert des Hermoises married a Jeanne d'Arc, who may also have been
a maid of Orleans; but this does not prove her to have been the historic
Jeanne. Secondly, as to the covering of the face, we may mention the fact,
hitherto withheld, that it was by no means an uncommon circumstance: the
victims of the Spanish Inquisition were usually led to the stake with veiled
faces. Thirdly, the phrase "jusques a son absentement" is hopelessly
ambiguous, and may as well refer to Pierre du Lis himself as to his sister.
These brief considerations seem to knock away all the main props of Mr.
Delepierre's hypothesis, save that furnished by the apparent testimony of
Jeanne's brothers, given at second hand in the Metz archives. And those
who are familiar with the phenomena of mediaeval delusions will be
unwilling to draw too hasty an inference from this alone. From the Emperor
Nero to Don Sebastian of Portugal, there have been many instances of the
supposed reappearance of persons generally believed to be dead. For my
own part, therefore, I am by no means inclined to adopt the hypothesis of
Jeanne's survival, although I have endeavoured to give it tangible shape and
plausible consistency. But the fact that so much can be said in behalf of a
theory running counter not only to universal tradition, but also to such a
vast body of contemporaneous testimony, should teach us to be circumspect
in holding our opinions, and charitable in our treatment of those who
dissent from them. For those who can discover in the historian Renan and
the critic Strauss nothing but the malevolence of incredulity, the case of
Jeanne d'Arc, duly contemplated, may serve as a wholesome lesson.

We have devoted so much space to this problem, by far the most
considerable of those treated in Mr. Delepierre's book, that we have hardly
room for any of the others. But a false legend concerning Solomon de Caus,
the supposed original inventor of the steam-engine, is so instructive that we
must give a brief account of it.
In 1834 "there appeared in the Musee des Familles a letter from the
celebrated Marion Delorme, supposed to have been written on the 3d
February, 1641, to her lover Cinq-Mars." In this letter it is stated that De
Caus came four years ago (1637) from Normandy, to inform the King
concerning a marvellous invention which he had made, being nothing less
than the application of steam to the propulsion of carriages. "The Cardinal
[Richelieu] dismissed this fool without giving him a hearing." But De Caus,
nowise discouraged, followed close upon the autocrat's heels wherever he
went, and so teased him, that the Cardinal, out of patience, sent him off to a
madhouse, where he passed the remainder of his days behind a grated
window, proclaiming his invention to the passengers in the street, and
calling upon them to release him. Marion gives a graphic account of her
visit, accompanied by the famous Lord Worcester, to the asylum at Bicetre,
where they saw De Caus at his window; and Worcester, in whose mind the
conception of the steam-engine was already taking shape, informed her that
the raving prisoner was not a madman, but a genius. A great stir was made
by this letter. The anecdote was copied into standard works, and represented
in engravings. Yet it was a complete hoax. De Caus was not only never
confined in a madhouse, but he was architect to Louis XIII. up to the time
of his death, in 1630, just eleven years BEFORE Marion Delorme was said
to have seen him at his grated window!
"On tracing this hoax to its source," says Mr. Delepierre, "we find that M.
Henri Berthoud, a literary man of some repute, and a constant contributor to
the Musee des Familles, confesses that the letter attributed to Marion was in
fact written by himself. The editor of this journal had requested Gavarni to
furnish him with a drawing for a tale in which a madman was introduced
looking through the bars of his cell. The drawing was executed and
engraved, but arrived too late; and the tale, which could not wait, appeared
without the illustration. However, as the wood-engraving was effective,
and, moreover, was paid for, the editor was unwilling that it should be
useless. Berthoud was, therefore, commissioned to look for a subject and to
invent a story to which the engraving might be applied. Strangely enough,

the world refused to believe in M. Berthoud's confession, so great a hold
had the anecdote taken on the public mind; and a Paris newspaper went so
far even as to declare that the original autograph of this letter was to be seen
in a library in Normandy! M. Berthoud wrote again, denying its existence,
and offered a million francs to any one who would produce the said letter."
From this we may learn two lessons, the first being that utterly baseless
but plausible stories may arise in queer ways. In the above case, the most
far-fetched hypothesis to account for the origin of the legend could hardly
have been as apparently improbable as the reality. Secondly, we may learn
that if a myth once gets into the popular mind, it is next to impossible to get
it out again. In the Castle of Heidelberg there is a portrait of De Caus, and a
folio volume of his works, accompanied by a note, in which this letter of
Marion Delorme is unsuspectingly cited as genuine. And only three years
ago, at a public banquet at Limoges, a well-known French Senator and man
of letters made a speech, in which he retailed the story of the madhouse for
the edification of his hearers. Truly a popular error has as many lives as a
cat; it comes walking in long after you have imagined it effectually
strangled.
In conclusion, we may remark that Mr. Delepierre does very scant justice
to many of the interesting questions which he discusses. It is to be regretted
that he has not thought it worth while to argue his points more thoroughly,
and that he has not been more careful in making statements of fact. He
sometimes makes strange blunders, the worst of which, perhaps, is
contained in his article on Petrarch and Laura. He thinks Laura was merely
a poetical allegory, and such was the case, he goes on to say, "with Dante
himself, whose Beatrice was a child who died at nine years of age." Dante's
Beatrice died on the 9th of June, 1290, at the age of twenty-four, having
been the wife of Simone dei Bardi rather more than three years.

October, 1868.

IX. THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL. 30
No intelligent reader can advance fifty pages in this volume without
becoming aware that he has got hold of a very remarkable book. Mr.
Hunter's style, to begin with, is such as is written only by men of large
calibre and high culture. No words are wasted. The narrative flows calmly
and powerfully along, like a geometrical demonstration, omitting nothing
which is significant, admitting nothing which is irrelevant, glowing with all
the warmth of rich imagination and sympathetic genius, yet never allowing
any overt manifestation of feeling, ever concealing the author's personality
beneath the unswerving exposition of the subject-matter. That highest art,
which conceals art, Mr. Hunter appears to have learned well. With him, the
curtain is the picture.
Such a style as this would suffice to make any book interesting, in spite
of the remoteness of the subject. But the "Annals of Rural Bengal" do not
concern us so remotely as one might at first imagine. The phenomena of the
moral and industrial growth or stagnation of a highly-endowed people must
ever possess the interest of fascination for those who take heed of the
maxim that "history is philosophy teaching by example." National
prosperity depends upon circumstances sufficiently general to make the
experience of one country of great value to another, though ignorant
Bourbon dynasties and Rump Congresses refuse to learn the lesson. It is of
the intimate every-day life of rural Bengal that Mr. Hunter treats. He does
not, like old historians, try our patience with a bead-roll of names that have
earned no just title to remembrance, or dazzle us with a bountiful display of
"barbaric pearls and gold," or lead us in the gondolas of Buddhist kings
down sacred rivers, amid "a summer fanned with spice"; but he describes
the labours and the sufferings, the mishaps and the good fortune, of thirty
millions of people, who, however dusky may be their hue, tanned by the
tropical suns of fifty centuries, are nevertheless members of the imperial
Aryan race, descended from the cool highlands eastward of the Caspian,
where, long before the beginning of recorded history, their ancestors and
those of the Anglo-American were indistinguishably united in the same
primitive community.

The narrative portion of the present volume is concerned mainly with the
social and economical disorganization wrought by the great famine of 1770,
and with the attempts of the English government to remedy the same. The
remainder of the book is occupied with inquiries into the ethnic character of
the population of Bengal, and particularly with an exposition of the
peculiarities of the language, religion, customs, and institutions of the
Santals, or hill-tribes of Beerbhoom. A few remarks on the first of these
topics may not be uninteresting.
Throughout the entire course of recorded European history, from the
remote times of which the Homeric poems preserve the dim tradition down
to the present moment, there has occurred no calamity at once so sudden
and of such appalling magnitude as the famine which in the spring and
summer of 1770 nearly exterminated the ancient civilization of Bengal. It
presents that aspect of preternatural vastness which characterizes the
continent of Asia and all that concerns it. The Black Death of the fourteenth
century was, perhaps, the most fearful visitation which has ever afflicted the
Western world. But in the concentrated misery which it occasioned the
Bengal famine surpassed it, even as the Himalayas dwarf by comparison the
highest peaks of Switzerland. It is, moreover, the key to the history of
Bengal during the next forty years; and as such, merits, from an economical
point of view, closer attention than it has hitherto received.
Lower Bengal gathers in three harvests each year; in the spring, in the
early autumn, and in December, the last being the great rice-crop, the
harvest on which the sustenance of the people depends. Through the year
1769 there was great scarcity, owing to the partial failure of the crops of
1768, but the spring rains appeared to promise relief, and in spite of the
warning appeals of provincial officers, the government was slow to take
alarm, and continued rigorously to enforce the land-tax. But in September
the rains suddenly ceased. Throughout the autumn there ruled a parching
drought; and the rice-fields, according to the description of a native
superintendent of Bishenpore, "became like fields of dried straw."
Nevertheless, the government at Calcutta made—with one lamentable
exception, hereafter to be noticed—no legislative attempt to meet the
consequences of this dangerous condition of things. The administration of
local affairs was still, at that date, intrusted to native officials. The whole
internal regulation was in the hands of the famous Muhamad Reza Ehan.
Hindu or Mussulman assessors pried into every barn and shrewdly

estimated the probable dimensions of the crops on every field; and the
courts, as well as the police, were still in native hands. "These men," says
our author, "knew the country, its capabilities, its average yield, and its
average requirements, with an accuracy that the most painstaking English
official can seldom hope to attain to. They had a strong interest in
representing things to be worse than they were; for the more intense the
scarcity, the greater the merit in collecting the land-tax. Every consultation
is filled with their apprehensions and highly-coloured accounts of the public
distress; but it does not appear that the conviction entered the minds of the
Council during the previous winter months, that the question was not so
much one of revenue as of depopulation." In fact, the local officers had
cried "Wolf!" too often. Government was slow to believe them, and
announced that nothing better could be expected than the adoption of a
generous policy toward those landholders whom the loss of harvest had
rendered unable to pay their land-tax. But very few indulgences were
granted, and the tax was not diminished, but on the contrary was, in the
month of April, 1770, increased by ten per cent for the following year. The
character of the Bengali people must also be taken into the account in
explaining this strange action on the part of the government.
"From the first appearance of Lower Bengal in history, its inhabitants
have been reticent, self-contained, distrustful of foreign observation, in a
degree without parallel among other equally civilized nations. The cause of
this taciturnity will afterwards be clearly explained; but no one who is
acquainted either with the past experiences or the present condition of the
people can be ignorant of its results. Local officials may write alarming
reports, but their apprehensions seem to be contradicted by the apparent
quiet that prevails. Outward, palpable proofs of suffering are often wholly
wanting; and even when, as in 1770, such proofs abound, there is generally
no lack of evidence on the other side. The Bengali bears existence with a
composure that neither accident nor chance can ruffle. He becomes silently
rich or uncomplainingly poor. The emotional part of his nature is in strict
subjection, his resentment enduring but unspoken, his gratitude of the sort
that silently descends from generation to generation. The passion for
privacy reaches its climax in the domestic relations. An outer apartment, in
even the humblest households, is set apart for strangers and the transaction
of business, but everything behind it is a mystery. The most intimate friend
does not venture to make those commonplace kindly inquiries about a

neighbour's wife or daughter which European courtesy demands from mere
acquaintances. This family privacy is maintained at any price. During the
famine of 1866 it was found impossible to render public charity available to
the female members of the respectable classes, and many a rural household
starved slowly to death without uttering a complaint or making a sign.
"All through the stifling summer of 1770 the people went on dying. The
husbandmen sold their cattle; they sold their implements of agriculture;
they devoured their seed-grain; they sold their sons and daughters, till at
length no buyer of children could be found; they ate the leaves of trees and
the grass of the field; and in June, 1770, the Resident at the Durbar affirmed
that the living were feeding on the dead. Day and night a torrent of
famished and disease-stricken wretches poured into the great cities. At an
early period of the year pestilence had broken out. In March we find small-
pox at Moorshedabad, where it glided through the vice-regal mutes, and cut
off the Prince Syfut in his palace. The streets were blocked up with
promiscuous heaps of the dying and dead. Interment could not do its work
quick enough; even the dogs and jackals, the public scavengers of the East,
became unable to accomplish their revolting work, and the multitude of
mangled and festering corpses at length threatened the existence of the
citizens..... In 1770, the rainy season brought relief, and before the end of
September the province reaped an abundant harvest. But the relief came too
late to avert depopulation. Starving and shelterless crowds crawled
despairingly from one deserted village to another in a vain search for food,
or a resting-place in which to hide themselves from the rain. The epidemics
incident to the season were thus spread over the whole country; and, until
the close of the year, disease continued so prevalent as to form a subject of
communication from the government in Bengal to the Court of Directors.
Millions of famished wretches died in the struggle to live through the few
intervening weeks that separated them from the harvest, their last gaze
being probably fixed on the densely-covered fields that would ripen only a
little too late for them..... Three months later, another bountiful harvest, the
great rice-crop of the year, was gathered in. Abundance returned to Bengal
as suddenly as famine had swooped down upon it, and in reading some of
the manuscript records of December it is difficult to realize that the scenes
of the preceding ten months have not been hideous phantasmagoria or a
long, troubled dream. On Christmas eve, the Council in Calcutta wrote
home to the Court of Directors that the scarcity had entirely ceased, and,

incredible as it may seem, that unusual plenty had returned..... So generous
had been the harvest that the government proposed at once to lay in its
military stores for the ensuing year, and expected to obtain them at a very
cheap rate."
Such sudden transitions from the depths of misery to the most exuberant
plenty are by no means rare in the history of Asia, where the various centres
of civilization are, in an economical sense, so isolated from each other that
the welfare of the population is nearly always absolutely dependent on the
irregular: and apparently capricious bounty of nature. For the three years
following the dreadful misery above described, harvests of unprecedented
abundance were gathered in. Yet how inadequate they were to repair the
fearful damage wrought by six months of starvation, the history of the next
quarter of a century too plainly reveals. "Plenty had indeed returned," says
our annalist, "but it had returned to a silent and deserted province." The
extent of the depopulation is to our Western imaginations almost incredible.
During those six months of horror, more than TEN MILLIONS of people
had perished! It was as if the entire population of our three or four largest
States—man, woman, and child—were to be utterly swept away between
now and next August, leaving the region between the Hudson and Lake
Michigan as quiet and deathlike as the buried streets of Pompeii. Yet the
estimate is based upon most accurate and trustworthy official returns; and
Mr. Hunter may well say that "it represents an aggregate of individual
suffering which no European nation has been called upon to contemplate
within historic times."
This unparalleled calamity struck down impartially the rich and the poor.
The old, aristocratic families of Lower Bengal were irretrievably ruined.
The Rajah of Burdwan, whose possessions were so vast that, travel as far as
he would, he always slept under a roof of his own and within his own
jurisdiction, died in such indigence that his son had to melt down the family
plate and beg a loan from the government in order to discharge his father's
funeral expenses. And our author gives other similar instances. The wealthy
natives who were appointed to assess and collect the internal revenue, being
unable to raise the sums required by the government, were in many cases
imprisoned, or their estates were confiscated and re-let in order to discharge
the debt.

For fifteen years the depopulation went on increasing. The children in a
community, requiring most nourishment to sustain their activity, are those
who soonest succumb to famine. "Until 1785," says our author, "the old
died off without there being any rising generation to step into their places."
From lack of cultivators, one third of the surface of Bengal fell out of tillage
and became waste land. The landed proprietors began each "to entice away
the tenants of his neighbour, by offering protection against judicial
proceedings, and farms at very low rents." The disputes and deadly feuds
which arose from this practice were, perhaps, the least fatal of the evil
results which flowed from it. For the competition went on until, the tenants
obtaining their holdings at half-rates, the resident cultivators—who had
once been the wealthiest farmers in the country—were no longer able to
complete on such terms. They began to sell, lease, or desert their property,
migrating to less afflicted regions, or flying to the hills on the frontier to
adopt a savage life. But, in a climate like that of Northeastern India, it takes
but little time to transform a tract of untilled land into formidable
wilderness. When the functions of society are impeded, nature is swift to
assert its claims. And accordingly, in 1789, "Lord Cornwallis after three
years' vigilant inquiry, pronounced one third of the company's territories in
Bengal to be a jungle, inhabited only by wild beasts."
On the Western frontier of Beerbhoom the state of affairs was, perhaps,
most calamitous. In 1776, four acres out of every seven remained untilled.
Though in earlier times this district had been a favourite highway for
armies, by the year 1780 it had become an almost impassable jungle. A
small company of Sepoys, which in that year by heroic exertions forced its
way through, was obliged to traverse 120 miles of trackless forest,
swarming with tigers and black shaggy bears. In 1789 this jungle
"continued so dense as to shut off all communication between the two most
important towns, and to cause the mails to be carried by a circuit of fifty
miles through another district."
Such a state of things it is difficult for us to realize; but the monotonous
tale of disaster and suffering is not yet complete. Beerbhoom was, to all
intents and purposes, given over to tigers. "A belt of jungle, filled with wild
beasts, formed round each village." At nightfall the hungry animals made
their dreaded incursions carrying away cattle, and even women and
children, and devouring them. "The official records frequently speak of the
mail-bag being carried off by wild beasts." So great was the damage done

by these depredations, that "the company offered a reward for each tiger's
head, sufficient to maintain a peasant's family in comfort for three months;
an item of expenditure it deemed so necessary, that, when under
extraordinary pressure it had to suspend all payments, the tiger-money and
diet allowance for prisoners were the sole exceptions to the rule." Still more
formidable foes were found in the herds of wild elephants, which came
trooping along in the rear of the devastation caused by the famine. In the
course of a few years fifty-six villages were reported as destroyed by
elephants, and as having lapsed into jungle in consequence; "and an official
return states that forty market-towns throughout the district had been
deserted from the same cause. In many parts of the country the peasantry
did not dare to sleep in their houses, lest they should be buried beneath
them during the night." These terrible beasts continued to infest the
province as late as 1810.
But society during these dark days had even worse enemies than tigers
and elephants. The barbarous highlanders, of a lower type of mankind,
nourishing for forty centuries a hatred of their Hindu supplanters, like that
which the Apache bears against the white frontiersman, seized the occasion
to renew their inroads upon the lowland country. Year by year they
descended from their mountain fastnesses, plundering and burning. Many
noble Hindu families, ousted by the tax-collectors from their estates, began
to seek subsistence from robbery. Others, consulting their selfish interests
amid the general distress, "found it more profitable to shelter banditti on
their estates, levying blackmail from the surrounding villages as the price of
immunity from depredation, and sharing in the plunder of such as would not
come to terms. Their country houses were robber strongholds, and the early
English administrators of Bengal have left it on record that a gang-robbery
never occurred without a landed proprietor being at the bottom of it." The
peasants were not slow to follow suit, and those who were robbed of their
winter's store had no alternative left but to become robbers themselves. The
thieveries of the Fakeers, or religious mendicants, and the bold, though
stealthy attacks of Thugs and Dacoits—members of Masonic brotherhoods,
which at all times have lived by robbery and assassination—added to the
general turmoil. In the cold weather of 1772 the province was ravaged far
and wide by bands of armed freebooters, fifty thousand strong; and to such
a pass did things arrive that the regular forces sent by Warren Hastings to
preserve order were twice disastrously routed; while, in Mr. Hunter's

graphic language, "villages high up the Ganges lived by housebreaking in
Calcutta." In English mansions "it was the invariable practice for the porter
to shut the outer door at the commencement of each meal, and not to open it
till the butler brought him word that the plate was safely locked up." And
for a long time nearly all traffic ceased upon the imperial roads.
This state of things, which amounted to chronic civil war, induced Lord
Cornwallis in 1788 to place the province under the direct military control of
an English officer. The administration of Mr. Keating—the first hardy
gentleman to whom this arduous office was assigned—is minutely
described by our author. For our present purpose it is enough to note that
two years of severe campaigning, attended and followed by relentless
punishment of all transgressors, was required to put an end to the disorders.
Such was the appalling misery, throughout a community of thirty million
persons, occasioned by the failure of the winter rice-crop in 1769. In
abridging Mr. Hunter's account we have adhered as closely to our original
as possible, but he who would obtain adequate knowledge of this tale of
woe must seek it in the ever memorable description of the historian himself.
The first question which naturally occurs to the reader—though, as Mr.
Hunter observes, it would have been one of the last to occur to the Oriental
mind—is, Who was to blame? To what culpable negligence was it due that
such a dire calamity was not foreseen, and at least partially warded off? We
shall find reason to believe that it could not have been adequately foreseen,
and that no legislative measures could in that state of society have entirely
prevented it. Yet it will appear that the government, with the best of
intentions, did all in its power to make matters worse; and that to its
blundering ignorance the distress which followed is largely due.
The first duty incumbent upon the government in a case like that of the
failure of the winter rice-crop of 1769, was to do away with all hindrance to
the importation of food into the province. One chief cause of the far-
reaching distress wrought by great Asiatic famines has been the almost
complete commercial isolation of Asiatic communities. In the Middle Ages
the European communities were also, though to a far less extent, isolated
from each other, and in those days periods of famine were comparatively
frequent and severe. And one of the chief causes which now render the
occurrence of a famine on a great scale almost impossible in any part of the
civilized world is the increased commercial solidarity of civilized nations.

Increased facility of distribution has operated no less effectively than
improved methods of production.
Now, in 1770 the province of Lower Bengal was in a state of almost
complete commercial isolation from other communities. Importation of
food on an adequate scale was hardly possible. "A single fact speaks
volumes as to the isolation of each district. An abundant harvest, we are
repeatedly told, was as disastrous to the revenues as a bad one; for, when a
large quantity of grain had to be carried to market, the cost of carriage
swallowed up the price obtained. Indeed, even if the means of
intercommunication and transport had rendered importation practicable, the
province had at that time no money to give in exchange for food. Not only
had its various divisions a separate currency which would pass nowhere
else except at a ruinous exchange, but in that unfortunate year Bengal seems
to have been utterly drained of its specie..... The absence of the means of
importation was the more to be deplored, as the neighbouring districts could
easily have supplied grain. In the southeast a fair harvest had been reaped,
except, in circumscribed spots; and we are assured that, during the famine,
this part of Bengal was enabled to export without having to complain of any
deficiency in consequence..... INDEED, NO MATTER HOW LOCAL A
FAMINE MIGHT BE IN THE LAST CENTURY, THE EFFECTS WERE
EQUALLY DISASTROUS. Sylhet, a district in the northeast of Bengal,
had reaped unusually plentiful harvests in 1780 and 1781, but the next crop
was destroyed by a local inundation, and, notwithstanding the facilities for
importation afforded by water-carriage, one third of the people died."
Here we have a vivid representation of the economic condition of a
society which, however highly civilized in many important respects, still
retained, at the epoch treated of, its aboriginal type of organization. Here we
see each community brought face to face with the impossible task of
supplying, unaided, the deficiencies of nature. We see one petty district a
prey to the most frightful destitution, even while profuse plenty reigns in
the districts round about it. We find an almost complete absence of the
commercial machinery which, by enabling the starving region to be fed out
of the surplus of more favoured localities, has in the most advanced
countries rendered a great famine practically impossible.
Now this state of things the government of 1770 was indeed powerless to
remedy. Legislative power and wisdom could not anticipate the invention of

railroads; nor could it introduce throughout the length and breadth of
Bengal a system of coaches, canals, and caravans; nor could it all at once do
away with the time-honoured brigandage, which increased the cost of
transport by decreasing the security of it; nor could it in a trice remove the
curse of a heterogeneous coinage. None, save those uninstructed agitators
who believe that governments can make water run up-hill, would be
disposed to find fault with the authorities in Bengal for failing to cope with
these difficulties. But what we are to blame them for—though it was an
error of the judgment and not of the intentions—is their mischievous
interference with the natural course of trade, by which, instead of helping
matters, they but added another to the many powerful causes which were
conspiring to bring about the economic ruin of Bengal. We refer to the act
which in 1770 prohibited under penalties all speculation in rice.
This disastrous piece of legislation was due to the universal prevalence of
a prejudice from which so-called enlightened communities are not yet
wholly free. It is even now customary to heap abuse upon those persons
who in a season of scarcity, when prices are rapidly rising, buy up the
"necessaries of life," thereby still increasing for a time the cost of living.
Such persons are commonly assailed with specious generalities to the effect
that they are enemies of society. People whose only ideas are "moral ideas"
regard them as heartless sharpers who fatten upon the misery of their
fellow-creatures. And it is sometimes hinted that such "practices" ought to
be stopped by legislation.
Now, so far is this prejudice, which is a very old one, from being justified
by facts, that, instead of being an evil, speculation in breadstuffs and other
necessaries is one of the chief agencies by which in modern times and
civilized countries a real famine is rendered almost impossible. This natural
monopoly operates in two ways. In the first place, by raising prices, it
checks consumption, putting every one on shorter allowance until the
season of scarcity is over, and thus prevents the scarcity from growing into
famine. In the second place, by raising prices, it stimulates importation
from those localities where abundance reigns and prices are low. It thus in
the long run does much to equalize the pressure of a time of dearth and
diminish those extreme oscillations of prices which interfere with the even,
healthy course of trade. A government which, in a season of high prices,
does anything to check such speculation, acts about as sagely as the skipper
of a wrecked vessel who should refuse to put his crew upon half rations.

The turning-point of the great Dutch Revolution, so far as it concerned
the provinces which now constitute Belgium, was the famous siege and
capture of Antwerp by Alexander Farnese, Duke of Parma. The siege was a
long one, and the resistance obstinate, and the city would probably not have
been captured if famine had not come to the assistance of the besiegers. It is
interesting, therefore, to inquire what steps the civic authorities had taken to
prevent such a calamity. They knew that the struggle before them was likely
to be the life-and-death struggle of the Southern Netherlands; they knew
that there was risk of their being surrounded so that relief from without
would be impossible; they knew that their assailant was one of the most
astute and unconquerable of men, by far the greatest general of the sixteenth
century. Therefore they proceeded to do just what our Republican Congress,
under such circumstances, would probably have done, and just what the
New York Tribune, if it had existed in those days, would have advised them
to do. Finding that sundry speculators were accumulating and hoarding up
provisions in anticipation of a season of high prices, they hastily decided,
first of all to put a stop to such "selfish iniquity." In their eyes the great
thing to be done was to make things cheap. They therefore affixed a very
low maximum price to everything which could be eaten, and prescribed
severe penalties for all who should attempt to take more than the sum by
law decreed. If a baker refused to sell his bread for a price which would
have been adequate only in a time of great plenty, his shop was to be broken
open, and his loaves distributed among the populace. The consequences of
this idiotic policy were twofold.
In the first place, the enforced lowness of prices prevented any
breadstuffs or other provisions from being brought into the city. It was a
long time before Farnese succeeded in so blockading the Scheldt as to
prevent ships laden with eatables from coming in below. Corn and
preserved meats might have been hurried by thousands of tons into the
beleaguered city. Friendly Dutch vessels, freighted with abundance, were
waiting at the mouth of the river. But all to no purpose. No merchant would
expose his valuable ship, with its cargo, to the risk of being sunk by
Farnese's batteries, merely for the sake of finding a market no better than a
hundred others which could be entered without incurring danger. No doubt
if the merchants of Holland had followed out the maxim Vivre pour autrui,
they would have braved ruin and destruction rather than behold their
neighbours of Antwerp enslaved. No doubt if they could have risen to a

broad philosophic view of the future interests of the Netherlands, they
would have seen that Antwerp must be saved, no matter if some of them
were to lose money by it. But men do not yet sacrifice themselves for their
fellows, nor do they as a rule look far beyond the present moment and its
emergencies. And the business of government is to legislate for men as they
are, not as it is supposed they ought to be. If provisions had brought a high
price in Antwerp, they would have been carried thither. As it was, the city,
by its own stupidity, blockaded itself far more effectually than Farnese
could have done it.
In the second place, the enforced lowness of prices prevented any general
retrenchment on the part of the citizens. Nobody felt it necessary to
economize. Every one bought as much bread, and ate it as freely, as if the
government by insuring its cheapness had insured its abundance. So the city
lived in high spirits and in gleeful defiance of its besiegers, until all at once
provisions gave out, and the government had to step in again to palliate the
distress which it had wrought. It constituted itself quartermaster-general to
the community, and doled out stinted rations alike to rich and poor, with
that stern democratic impartiality peculiar to times of mortal peril. But this
served only, like most artificial palliatives, to lengthen out the misery. At
the time of the surrender, not a loaf of bread could be obtained for love or
money.
In this way a bungling act of legislation helped to decide for the worse a
campaign which involved the territorial integrity and future welfare of what
might have become a great nation performing a valuable function in the
system of European communities.
The striking character of this instructive example must be our excuse for
presenting it at such length. At the beginning of the famine in Bengal the
authorities legislated in very much the same spirit as the burghers who had
to defend Antwerp against Parma.
"By interdicting what it was pleased to term the monopoly of grain, it
prevented prices from rising at once to their natural rates. The Province had
a certain amount of food in it, and this food had to last about nine months.
Private enterprise if left to itself would have stored up the general supply at
the harvest, with a view to realizing a larger profit at a later period in the
scarcity. Prices would in consequence have immediately risen, compelling
the population to reduce their consumption from the very beginning of the

dearth. The general stock would thus have been husbanded, and the
pressure equally spread over the whole nine months, instead of being
concentrated upon the last six. The price of grain, in place of promptly
rising to three half-pence a pound as in 1865-66, continued at three
farthings during the earlier months of the famine. During the latter ones it
advanced to twopence, and in certain localities reached fourpence."
The course taken by the great famine of 1866 well illustrates the above
views. This famine, also, was caused by the total failure of the December
rice-crop, and it was brought to a close by an abundant harvest in the
succeeding year.
"Even as regards the maximum price reached, the analogy holds good, in
each case rice having risen in general to nearly twopence, and in particular
places to fourpence, a pound; and in each the quoted rates being for a brief
period in several isolated localities merely nominal, no food existing in the
market, and money altogether losing its interchangeable value. In both the
people endured silently to the end, with a fortitude that casual observers of
a different temperament and widely dissimilar race may easily mistake for
apathy, but which those who lived among the sufferers are unable to
distinguish from qualities that generally pass under a more honourable
name. During 1866, when the famine was severest, I superintended public
instruction throughout the southwestern division of Lower Bengal,
including Orissa. The subordinate native officers, about eight hundred in
number, behaved with a steadiness, and when called upon, with a self-
abnegation, beyond praise. Many of them ruined their health. The touching
scenes of self-sacrifice and humble heroism which I witnessed among the
poor villagers on my tours of inspection will remain in my memory till my
latest day."
But to meet the famine of 1866 Bengal was equipped with railroads and
canals, and better than all, with an intelligent government. Far from trying
to check speculation, as in 1770, the government did all in its power to
stimulate it. In the earlier famine one could hardly engage in the grain trade
without becoming amenable to the law. "In 1866 respectable men in vast
numbers went into the trade; for government, by publishing weekly returns
of the rates in every district, rendered the traffic both easy and safe. Every
one knew where to buy grain cheapest, and where to sell it dearest, and
food was accordingly brought from the districts that could best spare it, and

carried to those which most urgently needed it. Not only were prices
equalized so far as possible throughout the stricken parts, but the publicity
given to the high rates in Lower Bengal induced large shipments from the
upper provinces, and the chief seat of the trade became unable to afford
accommodation for landing the vast stores of grain brought down the river.
Rice poured into the affected districts from all parts,—railways, canals, and
roads vigorously doing their duty."
The result of this wise policy was that scarcity was heightened into
famine only in one remote corner of Bengal. Orissa was commercially
isolated in 1866, as the whole country had been in 1770. "As far back as the
records extend, Orissa has produced more grain than it can use. It is an
exporting, not an importing province, sending away its surplus grain by sea,
and neither requiring nor seeking any communication with Lower Bengal
by land." Long after the rest of the province had begun to prepare for a year
of famine, Orissa kept on exporting. In March, when the alarm was first
raised, the southwest monsoon had set in, rendering the harbours
inaccessible. Thus the district was isolated. It was no longer possible to
apply the wholesome policy which was operating throughout the rest of the
country. The doomed population of Orissa, like passengers in a ship without
provisions, were called upon to suffer the extremities of famine; and in the
course of the spring and summer of 1866, some seven hundred thousand
people perished.

January, 1869.

X. SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS. 31
Tandem fit surculus arbor: the twig which Mr. Motley in his earlier
volumes has described as slowly putting forth its leaves and rootless, while
painfully struggling for existence in a hostile soil, has at last grown into a
mighty tree of liberty, drawing sustenance from all lands, and protecting all
civilized peoples with its pleasant shade. We congratulate Mr. Motley upon
the successful completion of the second portion of his great work; and we
think that the Netherlanders of our time have reason to be grateful to the
writer who has so faithfully and eloquently told the story of their country's
fearful struggle against civil and ecclesiastical tyranny, and its manifold
contributions to the advancement of European civilization.
Mr. Motley has been fortunate in his selection of a subject upon which to
write. Probably no century of modern times lends itself to the purposes of
the descriptive historian so well as the sixteenth. While on the one hand the
problems which it presents are sufficiently near for us to understand them
without too great an effort of the imagination, on the other hand they are
sufficiently remote for us to study them without passionate and warping
prejudice. The contest between Catholicism and the reformed religion—
between ecclesiastical autocracy and the right of private investigation—has
become a thing of the past, and constitutes a closed chapter in human
history. The epoch which begins where Mr. Motley's history is designed to
close—at the peace of Westphalia—is far more complicated. Since the
middle of the seventeenth century a double movement has been going on in
religion and philosophy, society and politics,—a movement of destruction
typified by Voltaire and Rousseau, and a constructive movement
represented by Diderot and Lessing. We are still living in the midst of this
great epoch: the questions which it presents are liable to disturb our
prejudices as well as to stimulate our reason; the results to which it must
sooner or later attain can now be only partially foreseen; and even its
present tendencies are generally misunderstood, and in many quarters
wholly ignored. With the sixteenth century, as we have said, the case is far
different. The historical problem is far less complex. The issues at stake are

comparatively simple, and the historian has before him a straightforward
story.
From the dramatic, or rather from the epic, point of view, the sixteenth
century is pre-eminent. The essentially transitional character of modern
history since the breaking up of the papal and feudal systems is at no period
more distinctly marked. In traversing the sixteenth century we realize that
we have fairly got out of one state of things and into another. At the outset,
events like the challenge of Barletta may make us doubt whether we have
yet quite left behind the Middle Ages. The belief in the central position of
the earth is still universal, and the belief in its rotundity not yet, until the
voyage of Magellan, generally accepted. We find England—owing partly to
the introduction of gunpowder and the consequent disuse of archery, partly
to the results of the recent integration of France under Louis XI.—fallen
back from the high relative position which it had occupied under the rule of
the Plantagenets; and its policy still directed in accordance with
reminiscences of Agincourt, and garnet, and Burgundian alliances. We find
France just beginning her ill-fated career of intervention in the affairs of
Italy; and Spain, with her Moors finally vanquished and a new world
beyond the ocean just added to her domain, rapidly developing into the
greatest empire which had been seen since the days of the first Caesars. But
at the close of the century we find feudal life in castles changed into
modern life in towns; chivalric defiances exchanged for over-subtle
diplomacy; Maurices instead of Bayards; a Henry IV. instead of a Gaston de
Foix. We find the old theory of man's central position in the universe—the
foundation of the doctrine of final causes and of the whole theological
method of interpreting nature—finally overthrown by Copernicus. Instead
of the circumnavigability of the earth, the discovery of a Northwest passage
—as instanced by the heroic voyage of Barendz, so nobly described by Mr.
Motley—is now the chief geographical problem. East India Companies, in
place of petty guilds of weavers and bakers, bear witness to the vast
commercial progress. We find England, fresh from her stupendous victory
over the whole power of Spain, again in the front rank of nations; France,
under the most astute of modern sovereigns, taking her place for a time as
the political leader of the civilized world; Spain, with her evil schemes
baffled in every quarter, sinking into that terrible death-like lethargy, from
which she has hardly yet awakened, and which must needs call forth our
pity, though it is but the deserved retribution for her past behaviour. While

the little realm of the Netherlands, filched and cozened from the unfortunate
Jacqueline by the "good" Duke of Burgundy, carried over to Austria as the
marriage-portion of Lady Mary, sent down to Spain as the personal
inheritance of the "prudent" Philip, and by him intolerably tormented with
an Inquisition, a Blood-Council, and a Duke of Alva, has after a forty years'
war of independence taken its position for a time as the greatest of
commercial nations, with the most formidable navy and one of the best
disciplined armies yet seen upon the earth.
But the central phenomenon of the sixteenth century is the culmination of
the Protestant movement in its decisive proclamation by Luther. For nearly
three hundred years already the power of the Church had been declining,
and its function as a civilizing agency had been growing more and more
obsolete. The first great blow at its supremacy had been directed with
partial success in the thirteenth century by the Emperor Frederick II.
Coincident with this attack from without, we find a reformation begun
within, as exemplified in the Dominican and Franciscan movements. The
second great blow was aimed by Philip IV. of France, and this time it struck
with terrible force. The removal of the Papacy to Avignon, in 1305, was the
virtual though unrecognized abdication of its beneficent supremacy. Bereft
of its dignity and independence, from that time forth it ceased to be the
defender of national unity against baronial anarchy, of popular rights
against monarchical usurpation, and became a formidable instrument of
despotism and oppression. Through the vicissitudes of the great schism in
the fourteenth century, and the refractory councils in the fifteenth, its
position became rapidly more and more retrograde and demoralized. And
when, in 1530, it joined its forces with those of Charles V., in crushing the
liberties of the worthiest of mediaeval republics, it became evident that the
cause of freedom and progress must henceforth be intrusted to some more
faithful champion. The revolt of Northern Europe, led by Luther and Henry
VIII. was but the articulate announcement of this altered state of affairs. So
long as the Roman Church had been felt to be the enemy of tyrannical
monarchs and the steadfast friend of the people, its encroachments, as
represented by men like Dunstan and Becket, were regarded with popular
favour. The strength of the Church lay ever in its democratic instincts; and
when these were found to have abandoned it, the indignant protest of Luther
sufficed to tear away half of Europe from its allegiance.

By the end of the sixteenth century, we find the territorial struggle
between the Church and the reformed religion substantially decided.
Protestantism and Catholicism occupied then the same respective areas
which they now occupy. Since 1600 there has been no instance of a nation
passing from one form of worship to the other; and in all probability there
never will be. Since the wholesale dissolution of religious beliefs wrought
in the last century, the whole issue between Romanism and Protestantism,
regarded as dogmatic systems, is practically dead. M. Renan is giving
expression to an almost self-evident truth, when he says that religious
development is no longer to proceed by way of sectarian proselytism, but
by way of harmonious internal development. The contest is no longer
between one theology and another, but it is between the theological and the
scientific methods of interpreting natural phenomena. The sixteenth century
has to us therefore the interest belonging to a rounded and completed tale. It
contains within itself substantially the entire history of the final stage of the
theological reformation.
This great period falls naturally into two divisions, the first
corresponding very nearly with the reigns of Charles V. and Henry VIII.,
and the second with the age of Philip II. and Elizabeth. The first of these
periods was filled with the skirmishes which were to open the great battle of
the Reformation. At first the strength and extent of the new revolution were
not altogether apparent. While the Inquisition was vigorously crushing out
the first symptoms of disaffection in Spain, it at one time seemed as if the
Reformers were about to gain the whole of the Empire, besides acquiring an
excellent foothold in France. Again, while England was wavering between
the old and the new faith, the last hopes of the Reform in Germany seemed
likely to be destroyed by the military genius of Charles. But in Maurice, the
red-bearded hero of Saxony, Charles found more than his match. The
picture of the rapid and desperate march of Maurice upon Innspruck, and of
the great Emperor flying for his life at the very hour of his imagined
triumph, has still for us an intenser interest than almost any other scene of
that age; for it was the event which proved that Protestantism was not a
mere local insurrection which a monarch like Charles could easily put
down, but a gigantic revolution against which all the powers in the world
might well strive in vain.
With the abdication of Charles in 1556 the new period may be said to
begin, and it is here that Mr. Motley's history commences. Events crowded

thick and fast. In 1556 Philip II., a prince bred and educated for the distinct
purpose of suppressing heresy, succeeded to the rule of the most powerful
empire which had been seen since the days of the Antonines. In the
previous year a new era had begun at the court of Rome. The old race of
pagan pontiffs, the Borgias, the Farneses, and the Medicis, had come to an
end, and the papal throne was occupied by the puritanical Caraffa, as
violent a fanatic as Robespierre, and a foe of freedom as uncompromising
as Philip II. himself. Under his auspices took place the great reform in the
Church signalized by the rise of the Jesuits, as the reform in the thirteenth
century had been attended by the rise of the Cordeliers and Dominicans. His
name should not be forgotten, for it is mainly owing to the policy
inaugurated by him that Catholicism was enabled to hold its ground as well
as it did. In 1557 the next year, the strength of France was broken at St.
Quentin, and Spain was left with her hands free to deal with the Protestant
powers. In 1558, by the accession of Elizabeth, England became committed
to the cause of Reform. In 1559 the stormy administration of Margaret
began in the Netherlands. In 1560 the Scotch nobles achieved the
destruction of Catholicism in North Britain. By this time every nation
except France, had taken sides in the conflict which was to last, with hardly
any cessation, during two generations.
Mr. Motley, therefore, in describing the rise and progress of the united
republic of the Netherlands, is writing not Dutch but European history. On
his pages France, Spain, and England make almost as large a figure as
Holland itself. He is writing the history of the Reformation during its
concluding epoch, and he chooses the Netherlands as his main subject,
because during that period the Netherlands were the centre of the
movement. They constituted the great bulwark of freedom, and upon the
success or failure of their cause the future prospect of Europe and of
mankind depended. Spain and the Netherlands, Philip II. and William the
Silent, were the two leading antagonists and were felt to be such by the
other nations and rulers that came to mingle in the strife. It is therefore a
stupid criticism which we have seen made upon Mr. Motley, that, having
brought his narrative down to the truce of 1609, he ought, instead of
describing the Thirty Years' War, to keep on with Dutch history, and
pourtray the wars against Cromwell and Charles II., and the struggle of the
second William of Orange against Louis XIV. By so doing he would only
violate the unity of his narrative. The wars of the Dutch against England

and France belong to an entirely different epoch in European history,—a
modern epoch, in which political and commercial interests were of prime
importance, and theological interests distinctly subsidiary. The natural
terminus of Mr. Motley's work is the Peace of Westphalia. After bringing
down his history to the time when the independence of the Netherlands was
virtually acknowledged, after describing the principal stages of the struggle
against Catholicism and universal monarchy, as carried on in the first
generation by Elizabeth and William, and in the second by Maurice and
Henry, he will naturally go on to treat of the epilogue as conducted by
Richelieu and Gustavus, ending in the final cessation of religious wars
throughout Europe.
The conflict in the Netherlands was indeed far more than a mere religious
struggle. In its course was distinctly brought into prominence the fact which
we have above signalized, that since the Roman Church had abandoned the
liberties of the people they had found a new defender in the reformed
religion. The Dutch rebellion is peculiarly interesting, because it was a
revolt not merely against the Inquisition, but also against the temporal
sovereignty of Philip. Besides changing their religion, the sturdy
Netherlanders saw fit to throw off the sway of their legitimate ruler, and to
proclaim the thrice heretical doctrine of the sovereignty of the people. In
this one respect their views were decidedly more modern than those of
Elizabeth and Henry IV. These great monarchs apparently neither
understood nor relished the republican theories of the Hollanders; though it
is hardly necessary for Mr. Motley to sneer at them quite so often because
they were not to an impossible degree in advance of their age. The
proclamation of a republic in the Netherlands marked of itself the beginning
of a new era,—an era when flourishing communities of men were no longer
to be bought and sold, transferred and bequeathed like real estate and
chattels, but were to have and maintain the right of choosing with whom
and under whom they should transact their affairs. The interminable
negotiations for a truce, which fill nearly one third of Mr. Motley's
concluding volume, exhibit with striking distinctness the difference
between the old and new points of view. Here again we think Mr. Motley
errs slightly, in calling too much attention to the prevaricating diplomacy of
the Spanish court, and too little to its manifest inability to comprehend the
demands of the Netherlanders. How should statesmen brought up under
Philip II. and kept under the eye of the Inquisition be expected to

understand a claim for liberty originating in the rights of the common
people and not in the gracious benevolence or intelligent policy of the
King? The very idea must have been practically inconceivable by them.
Accordingly, they strove by every available device of chicanery to wheedle
the Netherlanders into accepting their independence as a gift from the King
of Spain. But to such a piece of self-stultification the clear-sighted
Dutchmen could by no persuasion be brought to consent. Their
independence, they argued, was not the King's to give. They had won it
from him and his father, in a war of forty years, during which they had
suffered atrocious miseries, and all that the King of Spain could do was to
acknowledge it as their right, and cease to molest them in future. Over this
point, so simple to us but knotty enough in those days, the commissioners
wrangled for nearly two years. And when the Spanish government, unable
to carry on the war any longer without risk of utter bankruptcy, and daily
crippled in its resources by the attacks of the Dutch navy, grudgingly a reed
to a truce upon the Netherlanders' terms, it virtually acknowledged its own
defeat and the downfall of the principles for which it had so obstinately
fought. By the truce of 1609 the republican principle was admitted by the
most despotic of governments.
Here was the first great triumph of republicanism over monarchy; and it
was not long in bearing fruits. For the Dutch revolution, the settlement of
America by English Puritans, the great rebellion of the Commons, the
Revolution of 1688, the revolt of the American Colonies, and the general
overthrow of feudalism in 1789, are but successive acts in the same drama
William the Silent was the worthy forerunner of Cromwell and Washington;
and but for the victory which he won, during his life and after his untimely
death, the subsequent triumphs of civil liberty might have been long,
postponed.
Over the sublime figure of William—saevis tranquillus in undis—we
should be glad to dwell, but we are not reviewing the "Rise of the Dutch
Republic," and in Mr. Motley's present volumes the hero of toleration
appears no longer. His antagonist, however,—the Philip whom God for
some inscrutable purpose permitted to afflict Europe during a reign of forty-
two years,—accompanies us nearly to the end of the present work, dying
just in time for the historian to sum up the case against him, and pronounce
final judgment. For the memory of Philip II. Mr. Motley cherishes no weak
pity. He rarely alludes to him without commenting upon his total depravity,

and he dismisses him with the remark that "if there are vices—as possibly
there are—from which he was exempt, it is because it is not permitted to
human nature to attain perfection in evil." The verdict is none the less just
because of its conciseness. If there ever was a strife between Hercules and
Cacus, between Ormuzd and Ahriman, between the Power of Light and the
Power of Darkness, it was certainly the strife between the Prince of Orange
and the Spanish Monarch. They are contrasted like the light and shade in
one of Dore's pictures. And yet it is perhaps unnecessary for Mr. Motley to
say that if Philip had been alive when Spinola won for him the great victory
of Ostend, "he would have felt it his duty to make immediate arrangements
for poisoning him." Doubtless the imputation is sufficiently justified by
what we know of Philip; but it is uncalled for. We do not care to hear about
what the despot might have done. We know what he did do, and the record
is sufficiently damning. There is no harm in our giving the Devil his due, or
as Llorente wittily says, "Il ne faut pas calomnier meme l'Inquisition."
Philip inherited all his father's bad qualities, without any of his good
ones; and so it is much easier to judge him than his father. Charles, indeed,
is one of those characters whom one hardly knows whether to love or hate,
to admire or despise. He had much bad blood in him. Charles the Bold and
Ferdinand of Aragon were not grandparents to be proud of. Yet with all this
he inherited from his grandmother Isabella much that one can like, and his
face, as preserved by Titian, in spite of its frowning brow and thick
Burgundian lip, is rather prepossessing, while the face of Philip is simply
odious. In intellect he must probably be called great, though his policy often
betrayed the pettiness of selfishness. If, in comparison with the mediaeval
emperor whose fame he envied, he may justly be called Charles the Little,
he may still, when compared to a more modern emulator of Charlemagne,
—the first of the Bonapartes,—be considered great and enlightened. If he
could lie and cheat more consummately than any contemporary monarch,
not excepting his rival, Francis, he could still be grandly magnanimous,
while the generosity of Francis flowed only from the shallow surface of a
maudlin good-nature. He spoke many languages and had the tastes of a
scholar, while his son had only the inclinations of an unfeeling pedagogue.
He had an inkling of urbanity, and could in a measure become all things to
all men, while Philip could never show himself except as a gloomy,
impracticable bigot. It is for some such reasons as these, I suppose, that Mr.
Buckle—no friend to despots—speaks well of Charles, and that Mr. Froude

is moved to tell the following anecdote: While standing by the grave of
Luther, and musing over the strange career of the giant monk whose
teachings had gone so far to wreck his most cherished schemes and render
his life a failure, some fanatical bystander advised the Emperor to have the
body taken up and burned in the market-place. "There was nothing," says
Mr. Froude, "unusual in the proposal; it was the common practice of the
Catholic Church with the remains of heretics, who were held unworthy to
be left in repose in hallowed ground. There was scarcely, perhaps another
Catholic prince who would have hesitated to comply. But Charles was one
of nature's gentlemen. He answered, 'I war not with the dead.'" Mr. Motley
takes a less charitable view of the great Emperor. His generous indignation
against all persecutors makes him severe; and in one of his earlier volumes,
while speaking of the famous edicts for the suppression of heresy in the
Netherlands, he somewhere uses the word "murder." Without attempting to
palliate the crime of persecution, I doubt if it is quite fair to Charles to call
him a murderer. We must not forget that persecution, now rightly deemed
an atrocious crime, was once really considered by some people a sacred
duty; that it was none other than the compassionate Isabella who established
the Spanish Inquisition; and that the "bloody" Mary Tudor was a woman
who would not wilfully have done wrong. With the progress of civilization
the time will doubtless come when warfare, having ceased to be necessary,
will be thought highly criminal; yet it will not then be fair to hold
Marlborough or Wellington accountable for the lives lost in their great
battles. We still live in an age when war is, to the imagination of some
persons, surrounded with false glories; and the greatest of modern generals
32 has still many undiscriminating admirers. Yet the day is no less certainly
at hand when the edicts of Charles V. will be deemed a more pardonable
offence against humanity than the wanton march to Moscow.
Philip II. was different from his father in capacity as a drudging clerk,
like Boutwell, is different from a brilliant financier like Gladstone. In
organization he differed from him as a boor differs from a gentleman. He
seemed made of a coarser clay. The difference between them is well
indicated by their tastes at the table. Both were terrible gluttons, a fact
which puritanic criticism might set down as equally to the discredit of each
of them. But even in intemperance there are degrees of refinement, and the
impartial critic of life and manners will no doubt say that if one must get
drunk, let it be on Chateau Margaux rather than on commissary whiskey.

Pickled partridges, plump capons, syrups of fruits, delicate pastry, and rare
fish went to make up the diet of Charles in his last days at Yuste. But the
beastly Philip would make himself sick with a surfeit of underdone pork.
Whatever may be said of the father, we can hardly go far wrong in
ascribing the instincts of a murderer to the son. He not only burned heretics,
but he burned them with an air of enjoyment and self-complacency. His
nuptials with Elizabeth of France were celebrated by a vast auto-da-fe. He
studied murder as a fine art, and was as skilful in private assassinations as
Cellini was in engraving on gems. The secret execution of Montigny, never
brought to light until the present century, was a veritable chef d'oeuvre of
this sort. The cases of Escobedo and Antonio Perez may also be cited in
point. Dark suspicions hung around the premature death of Don John of
Austria, his too brilliant and popular half-brother. He planned the murder of
William the Silent, and rewarded the assassin with an annuity furnished by
the revenues of the victim's confiscated estates. He kept a staff of ruffians
constantly in service for the purpose of taking off Elizabeth, Henry IV.,
Prince Maurice, Olden-Barneveldt, and St. Aldegonde. He instructed Alva
to execute sentence of death upon the whole population of the Netherlands.
He is partly responsible for the martyrdoms of Ridley and Latimer, and the
judicial murder of Cranmer. He first conceived the idea of the wholesale
massacre of St. Bartholomew, many years before Catharine de' Medici
carried it into operation. His ingratitude was as dangerous as his revengeful
fanaticism. Those who had best served his interests were the least likely to
escape the consequences of his jealousy. He destroyed Egmont, who had
won for him the splendid victories of St. Quentin and Gravelines; and "with
minute and artistic treachery" he plotted "the disgrace and ruin" of Farnese,
"the man who was his near blood-relation, and who had served him most
faithfully from earliest youth." Contemporary opinion even held him
accountable for the obscure deaths of his wife Elizabeth and his son Carlos;
but M. Gachard has shown that this suspicion is unfounded. Philip appears
perhaps to better advantage in his domestic than in his political relations.
Yet he was addicted to vulgar and miscellaneous incontinence; toward the
close of his life he seriously contemplated marrying his own daughter
Isabella; and he ended by taking for his fourth wife his niece, Anne of
Austria, who became the mother of his half-idiotic son and successor. We
know of no royal family, unless it may be the Claudians of Rome, in which
the transmission of moral and intellectual qualities is more thoroughly

illustrated than in this Burgundian race which for two centuries held the
sceptre of Spain. The son Philip and the grandmother Isabella are both
needful in order to comprehend the strange mixture of good and evil in
Charles. But the descendants of Philip—two generations of idiocy, and a
third of utter impotence—are a sufficient commentary upon the
organization and character of their progenitor.
Such was the man who for two generations had been considered the
bulwark of the Catholic Church; who, having been at the bottom of nearly
all the villany that had been wrought in Europe for half a century, was yet
able to declare upon his death-bed that "in all his life he had never
consciously done wrong to any one." At a ripe old age he died of a fearful
disease. Under the influence of a typhus fever, supervening upon gout, he
had begun to decompose while yet alive. "His sufferings," says Mr. Motley,
"were horrible, but no saint could have manifested in them more gentle
resignation or angelic patience. He moralized on the condition to which the
greatest princes might thus be brought at last by the hand of God, and bade
the Prince observe well his father's present condition, in order that when he
too should be laid thus low, he might likewise be sustained by a conscience
void of offence." What more is needed to complete the disgusting picture?
Philip was fanatical up to the point where fanaticism borders upon
hypocrisy. He was possessed with a "great moral idea," the idea of making
Catholicism the ruler of the world, that he might be the ruler of
Catholicism. Why, it may be said, shall the charge of fanaticism be allowed
to absolve Isabella and extenuate the guilt of Charles, while it only
strengthens the case against Philip? Because Isabella persecuted heretics in
order to save their souls from a worse fate, while Philip burnt them in order
to get them out of his way. Isabella would perhaps have gone to the stake
herself, if thereby she might have put an end to heresy. Philip would have
seen every soul in Europe consigned to eternal perdition before he would
have yielded up an iota of his claims to universal dominion. He could send
Alva to browbeat the Pope, as well as to oppress the Netherlanders. He
could compass the destruction of the orthodox Egmont and Farnese, as well
as of the heretical William. His unctuous piety only adds to the abhorrence
with which we regard him; and his humility in face of death is neither better
nor worse than the assumed humility which had become second nature to
Uriah Heep. In short, take him for all in all, he was probably the most
loathsome character in all European history. He has frequently been called,

by Protestant historians, an incarnate devil; but we do not think that
Mephistopheles would acknowledge him. He should rather be classed
among those creatures described by Dante as "a Dio spiacenti ed ai nemici
sui."
The abdication of Charles V. left Philip ruler over wider dominions than
had ever before been brought together under the sway of one man. In his
own right Philip was master not only of Spain, but of the Netherlands,
Franche Comte, Lombardy, Naples, and Sicily, with the whole of North and
South America; besides which he was married to the Queen of England. In
the course of his reign he became possessed of Portugal, with all its vast
domains in the East Indies. His revenues were greater than those of any
other contemporary monarch; his navy was considered invincible, and his
army was the best disciplined in Europe. All these great advantages he was
destined to throw to the winds. In the strife for universal monarchy, in the
mad endeavour to subject England, Scotland, and France to his own
dominion and the tyranny of the Inquisition, besides re-conquering the
Netherlands, all his vast resources were wasted. The Dutch war alone, like a
bottomless pit, absorbed all that he could pour into it. Long before the war
was over, or showed signs of drawing to an end, his revenues were wasted,
and his troops in Flanders were mutinous for want of pay. He had to rely
upon energetic viceroys like Farnese and the Spinolas to furnish funds out
of their own pockets. Finally, he was obliged to repudiate all his debts; and
when he died the Spanish empire was in such a beggarly condition that it
quaked at every approach of a hostile Dutch fleet. Such a result is not
evidence of a statesmanlike ability; but Philip's fanatical selfishness was
incompatible with statesmanship. He never could be made to believe that
his projects had suffered defeat. No sooner had the Invincible Armada been
sent to the bottom by the guns of the English fleet and the gales of the
German Ocean, than he sent orders to Farnese to invade England at once
with the land force under his command! He thought to obtain Scotland,
when, after the death of Mary, it had passed under the undisputed control of
the Protestant noblemen. He dreamed of securing for his family the crown
of France, even after Henry, with free consent of the Pope, had made his
triumphal entry into Paris. He asserted complete and entire sovereignty over
the Netherlands, even after Prince Maurice had won back from him the last
square foot of Dutch territory. Such obstinacy as this can only be called

fatuity. If Philip had lived in Pagan times, he would doubtless, like
Caligula, have demanded recognition of his own divinity.
The miserable condition of the Spanish people under this terrible reign,
and the causes of their subsequent degeneracy, have been well treated by
Mr. Motley. The causes of the failure of Spanish civilization are partly
social and partly economical; and they had been operating for eight hundred
years when Philip succeeded to the throne. The Moorish conquest in 711
had practically isolated Spain from the rest of Europe. In the Crusades she
took no part, and reaped none of the signal advantages resulting from that
great movement. Her whole energies were directed toward throwing off the
yoke of her civilized but "unbelieving" oppressors. For a longer time than
has now elapsed since the Norman Conquest of England, the entire Gothic
population of Spain was engaged in unceasing religious and patriotic
warfare. The unlimited power thus acquired by an unscrupulous clergy, and
the spirit of uncompromising bigotry thus imparted to the whole nation, are
in this way readily accounted for. But in spite of this, the affairs of Spain at
the accession of Charles V. were not in an unpromising condition. The
Spanish Visigoths had been the least barbarous of the Teutonic settlers
within the limits of the Empire; their civil institutions were excellent; their
cities had obtained municipal liberties at an earlier date than those of
England; and their Parliaments indulged in a liberty of speech which would
have seemed extravagant even to De Montfort. So late as the time of
Ferdinand, the Spaniards were still justly proud of their freedom; and the
chivalrous ambition which inspired the marvellous expedition of Cortes to
Mexico, and covered the soil of Italy with Spanish armies, was probably in
the main a healthy one. But the forces of Spanish freedom were united at
too late an epoch; in 1492, the power of despotism was already in the
ascendant. In England the case was different. The barons were enabled to
combine and wrest permanent privileges from the crown, at a time when
feudalism was strong. But the Spanish communes waited for combined
action until feudalism had become weak, and modern despotism, with its
standing armies and its control of the spiritual power, was arrayed in the
ranks against them. The War of the Communes, early in the reign of Charles
V., irrevocably decided the case in favour of despotism, and from that date
the internal decline of Spain may be said to have begun.
But the triumphant consolidation of the spiritual and temporal powers of
despotism, and the abnormal development of loyalty and bigotry, were not

the only evil results of the chronic struggle in which Spain had been
engaged. For many centuries, while Christian Spain had been but a fringe of
debatable border-land on the skirts of the Moorish kingdom, perpetual
guerilla warfare had rendered consecutive labour difficult or impracticable;
and the physical configuration of the country contributed in bringing about
this result. To plunder the Moors across the border was easier than to till the
ground at home. Then as the Spaniards, exemplifying the military
superiority of the feudal over the sultanic form of social organization,
proceeded steadily to recover dominion over the land, the industrious
Moors, instead of migrating backward before the advance of their
conquerors, remained at home and submitted to them. Thus Spanish society
became compounded of two distinct castes,—the Moorish Spaniards, who
were skilled labourers, and the Gothic Spaniards, by whom all labour, crude
or skilful, was deemed the stigma of a conquered race, and unworthy the
attention of respectable people. As Mr. Motley concisely says:—
"The highest industrial and scientific civilization that had been exhibited
upon Spanish territory was that of Moors and Jews. When in the course of
time those races had been subjugated, massacred, or driven into exile, not
only was Spain deprived of its highest intellectual culture and its most
productive labour, but intelligence, science, and industry were accounted
degrading, because the mark of inferior and detested peoples."
This is the key to the whole subsequent history of Spain. Bigotry, loyalty,
and consecrated idleness are the three factors which have made that great
country what it is to-day,—the most backward region in Europe. In view of
the circumstances just narrated, it is not surprising to learn that in Philip II.'s
time a vast portion of the real estate of the country was held by the Church
in mortmain; that forty-nine noble families owned all the rest; that all great
estates were held in tail; and that the property of the aristocracy and the
clergy was completely exempt from taxation. Thus the accumulation and
the diffusion of capital were alike prevented; and the few possessors of
property wasted it in unproductive expenditure. Hence the fundamental
error of Spanish political economy, that wealth is represented solely by the
precious metals; an error which well enough explains the total failure, in
spite of her magnificent opportunities, of Spain's attempts to colonize the
New World. Such was the frightful condition of Spanish society under
Philip II.; and as if this state of things were not bad enough, the next king,
Philip III., at the instigation of the clergy, decided to drive into banishment

the only class of productive labourers yet remaining in the country. In 1610,
this stupendous crime and blunder—unparalleled even in Spanish history—
was perpetrated. The entire Moorish population were expelled from their
homes and driven into the deserts of Africa. For the awful consequences of
this mad action no remedy was possible. No system of native industry could
be created on demand, to take the place of that which had been thus
wantonly crushed forever. From this epoch dates the social ruin of Spain. In
less than a century her people were riotous with famine; and every
sequestered glen and mountain pathway throughout the country had become
a lurking-place for robbers. Whoever would duly realize to what a
lamentable condition this beautiful peninsula had in the seventeenth century
been reduced, let him study the immortal pages of Lesage. He will learn
afresh the lesson, not yet sufficiently regarded in the discussion of social
problems, that the laws of nature cannot be violated without entailing a
penalty fearful in proportion to the extent of the violation. But let him
carefully remember also that the Spaniards are not and never have been a
despicable people. If Spain has produced one of the lowest characters in
history, she has also produced one of the highest. That man was every inch
a Spaniard who, maimed, diseased, and poor, broken down by long
captivity, and harassed by malignant persecution, lived nevertheless a life of
grandeur and beauty fit to be a pattern for coming generations,—the author
of a book which has had a wider fame than any other in the whole range of
secular literature, and which for delicate humour, exquisite pathos, and deep
ethical sentiment, remains to-day without a peer or a rival. If Philip II. was
a Spaniard, so, too, was Cervantes.
Spain could not be free, for she violated every condition by which
freedom is secured to a people. "Acuteness of intellect, wealth of
imagination, heroic qualities of heart and hand and brain, rarely surpassed
in any race and manifested on a thousand battle-fields, and in the triumphs
of a magnificent and most original literature, had not been able to save a
whole nation from the disasters and the degradation which the mere words
Philip II. and the Holy Inquisition suggest to every educated mind." Nor
could Spain possibly become rich, for, as Mr. Motley continues, "nearly
every law, according to which the prosperity of a country becomes
progressive, was habitually violated." On turning to the Netherlands we find
the most complete contrast, both in historical conditions and in social
results; and the success of the Netherlands in their long struggle becomes

easily intelligible. The Dutch and Flemish provinces had formed a part of
the renovated Roman Empire of Charles the Great and the Othos. Taking
advantage of the perennial contest for supremacy between the popes and the
Roman emperors, the constituent baronies and municipalities of the Empire
succeeded in acquiring and maintaining a practical though unrecognized
independence; and this is the original reason why Italy and Germany, unlike
the three western European communities, have remained fragmentary until
our own time. By reason of the practical freedom of action thus secured, the
Italian civic republics, the Hanse towns, and the cities of Holland and
Flanders, were enabled gradually to develop a vast commerce. The outlying
position of the Netherlands, remote from the imperial authorities, and on the
direct line of commerce between Italy and England, was another and a
peculiar advantage. Throughout the Middle Ages the Flemish and Dutch
cities were of considerable political importance, and in the fifteenth century
the Netherland provinces were the most highly civilized portion of Europe
north of the Alps. For several generations they had enjoyed, and had known
how to maintain, civic liberties, and when Charles and Philip attempted to
fasten upon them their "peculiar institution," the Spanish Inquisition, they
were ripe for political as well as theological revolt. Natural laws were found
to operate on the Rhine as well as on the Tagus, and at the end of the great
war of independence, Holland was not only better equipped than Spain for a
European conflict, but was rapidly ousting her from the East Indian
countries which she had in vain attempted to colonize.
But if we were to take up all the interesting and instructive themes
suggested by Mr. Motley's work, we should never come to an end. We must
pass over the exciting events narrated in these last volumes; the victory of
Nieuport, the siege of Ostend, the marvellous career of Maurice, the
surprising exploits of Spinola. We have attempted not so much to describe
Mr. Motley's book as to indulge in sundry reflections suggested by the
perusal of it. But we cannot close without some remarks upon a great man,
whose character Mr. Motley seems to have somewhat misconceived.
If Mr. Motley exhibits any serious fault, it is perhaps the natural tendency
to TAKE SIDES in the events which he is describing, which sometimes
operates as a drawback to complete and thoroughgoing criticism. With
every intention to do justice to the Catholics, Mr. Motley still writes as a
Protestant, viewing all questions from the Protestant side. He praises and
condemns like a very fair-minded Huguenot, but still like a Huguenot. It is

for this reason that he fails to interpret correctly the very complex character
of Henry IV., regarding him as a sort of selfish renegade whom he cannot
quite forgive for accepting the crown of France at the hands of the Pope.
Now this very action of Henry, in the eye of an impartial criticism, must
seem to be one of his chief claims to the admiration and gratitude of
posterity. Henry was more than a mere Huguenot: he was a far-seeing
statesman. He saw clearly what no ruler before him, save William the
Silent, had even dimly discerned, that not Catholicism and not
Protestantism, but absolute spiritual freedom was the true end to be aimed
at by a righteous leader of opinion. It was as a Catholic sovereign that he
could be most useful even to his Huguenot subjects; and he shaped his
course accordingly. It was as an orthodox sovereign, holding his position by
the general consent of Europe, that he could best subserve the interests of
universal toleration. This principle he embodied in his admirable edict of
Nantes. What a Huguenot prince might have done, may be seen from the
shameful way in which the French Calvinists abused the favour which
Henry—and Richelieu afterwards—accorded to them. Remembering how
Calvin himself "dragooned" Geneva, let us be thankful for the fortune
which, in one of the most critical periods of history, raised to the highest
position in Christendom a man who was something more than a sectarian.
With this brief criticism, we must regretfully take leave of Mr. Motley's
work. Much more remains to be said about a historical treatise which is, on
the whole, the most valuable and important one yet produced by an
American; but we have already exceeded our limits. We trust that our author
will be as successful in the future as he has been in the past; and that we
shall soon have an opportunity of welcoming the first instalment of his
"History of the Thirty Years' War."

March, 1868.

XI. LONGFELLOW'S DANTE. 33
THE task of a translator is a thankless one at best. Be he never so skilful
and accurate, be he never so amply endowed with the divine qualifications
of the poet, it is still questionable if he can ever succeed in saying
satisfactorily with new words that which has once been inimitably said—
said for all time—with the old words. "Psychologically, there is perhaps
nothing more complex than an elaborate poem. The sources of its effect
upon our minds may be likened to a system of forces which is in the highest
degree unstable; and the slightest displacement of phrases, by disturbing the
delicate rhythmical equilibrium of the whole, must inevitably awaken a
jarring sensation." Matthew Arnold has given us an excellent series of
lectures upon translating Homer, in which he doubtless succeeds in showing
that some methods of translation are preferable to others, but in which he
proves nothing so forcibly as that the simplicity and grace, the rapidity,
dignity, and fire, of Homer are quite incommunicable, save by the very
words in which they first found expression. And what is thus said of Homer
will apply to Dante with perhaps even greater force. With nearly all of
Homer's grandeur and rapidity, though not with nearly all his simplicity, the
poem of Dante manifests a peculiar intensity of subjective feeling which
was foreign to the age of Homer, as indeed to all pre-Christian antiquity.
But concerning this we need not dilate, as it has often been duly remarked
upon, and notably by Carlyle, in his "Lectures on Hero-Worship." Who that
has once heard the wail of unutterable despair sounding in the line

"Ahi, dura terra, perche non t' apristi?"

can rest satisfied with the interpretation

"Ah, obdurate earth, wherefore didst thou not open?"

yet this rendering is literally exact.
A second obstacle, hardly less formidable, hardly less fatal to a
satisfactory translation, is presented by the highly complicated system of
triple rhyme upon which Dante's poem is constructed. This, which must
ever be a stumbling-block to the translator, seems rarely to interfere with

the free and graceful movement of the original work. The mighty thought of
the master felt no impediment from the elaborate artistic panoply which
must needs obstruct and harass the interpretation of the disciple. Dante's
terza rima is a bow of Odysseus which weaker mortals cannot bend with
any amount of tugging, and which Mr. Longfellow has judiciously refrained
from trying to bend. Yet no one can fail to remark the prodigious loss
entailed by this necessary sacrifice of one of the most striking
characteristics of the original poem. Let any one who has duly reflected
upon the strange and subtle effect produced on him by the peculiar rhyme
of Tennyson's "In Memoriam," endeavour to realize the very different effect
which would be produced if the verses were to be alternated or coupled in
successive pairs, or if rhyme were to be abandoned for blank verse. The
exquisite melody of the poem would be silenced. The rhyme-system of the
"Divine Comedy" refuses equally to be tampered with or ignored. Its effect
upon the ear and the mind is quite as remarkable as that of the rhyme-
system of "In Memoriam"; and the impossibility of reproducing it is one
good reason why Dante must always suffer even more from translation than
most poets. 34
Something, too, must be said of the difficulties inevitably arising from
the diverse structure and genius of the Italian and English languages. None
will deny that many of them are insurmountable. Take the third line of the
first canto,—

"Che la diritta via era smarrita,"

which Mr. Longfellow translates

"For the straightforward pathway had been lost."

Perhaps there is no better word than "lost" by which to translate smarrita
in this place; yet the two words are far from equivalent in force. About the
word smarrita there is thrown a wide penumbra of meaning which does not
belong to the word lost. 35 By its diffuse connotations the word smarrita
calls up in our minds an adequate picture of the bewilderment and
perplexity of one who is lost in a trackless forest. The high-road with out,
beaten hard by incessant overpassing of men and beasts and wheeled
vehicles, gradually becomes metamorphosed into the shady lane, where
grass sprouts up rankly between the ruts, where bushes encroach upon the

roadside, where fallen trunks now and then intercept the traveller; and this
in turn is lost in crooked by-ways, amid brambles and underbrush and
tangled vines, growing fantastically athwart the path, shooting up on all
sides of the bewildered wanderer, and rendering advance and retreat alike
hopeless. No one who in childhood has wandered alone in the woods can
help feeling all this suggested by the word smarrita in this passage. How
bald in comparison is the word lost, which might equally be applied to a
pathway, a reputation, and a pocket-book! 36 The English is no doubt the
most copious and variously expressive of all living languages, yet I doubt if
it can furnish any word capable by itself of calling up the complex images
here suggested by smarrita. 37 And this is but one example, out of many that
might be cited, in which the lack of exact parallelism between the two
languages employed causes every translation to suffer.
All these, however, are difficulties which lie in the nature of things,—
difficulties for which the translator is not responsible; of which he must try
to make the best that can be made, but which he can never expect wholly to
surmount. We have now to inquire whether there are not other difficulties,
avoidable by one method of translation, though not by another; and in
criticizing Mr. Longfellow, we have chiefly to ask whether he has chosen
the best method of translation,—that which most surely and readily
awakens in the reader's mind the ideas and feelings awakened by the
original.
The translator of a poem may proceed upon either of two distinct
principles. In the first case, he may render the text of his original into
English, line for line and word for word, preserving as far as possible its
exact verbal sequences, and translating each individual word into an
English word as nearly as possible equivalent in its etymological force. In
the second case, disregarding mere syntactic and etymologic equivalence,
his aim will be to reproduce the inner meaning and power of the original, so
far as the constitutional difference of the two languages will permit him.
It is the first of these methods that Mr. Longfellow has followed in his
translation of Dante. Fidelity to the text of the original has been his guiding
principle; and every one must admit that, in carrying out that principle, he
has achieved a degree of success alike delightful and surprising. The
method of literal translation is not likely to receive any more splendid
illustration. It is indeed put to the test in such a way that the shortcomings

now to be noticed bear not upon Mr. Longfellow's own style of work so
much as upon the method itself with which they are necessarily implicated.
These defects are, first, the too frequent use of syntactic inversion, and
secondly, the too manifest preference extended to words of Romanic over
words of Saxon origin.
To illustrate the first point, let me give a few examples. In Canto I. we
have:—

"So bitter is it, death is little more;
But of the good to treat which there I found,
Speak will I of the other things I saw there";

which is thus rendered by Mr. Cary,—

"Which to remember only, my dismay
Renews, in bitterness not far from death.
Yet to discourse of what there good befell,
All else will I relate discovered there";

and by Dr. Parsons,—

"Its very thought is almost death to me;
Yet, having found some good there, I will tell
Of other things which there I chanced to see." 38

Inferno, I. 7-10.
Again in Canto X. we find:—

"Their cemetery have upon this side
With Epicurus all his followers,
Who with the body mortal make the soul";—

an inversion which is perhaps not more unidiomatic than Mr. Cary's,—

"The cemetery on this part obtain
With Epicurus all his followers,
Who with the body make the spirit die";

but which is advantageously avoided by Mr. Wright,—

"Here Epicurus hath his fiery tomb,
And with him all his followers, who maintain
That soul and body share one common doom";

and is still better rendered by Dr. Parsons,—

"Here in their cemetery on this side,
With his whole sect, is Epicurus pent,
Who thought the spirit with its body died." 39

And here my eyes, reverting to the end of Canto IX.,
fall upon a similar contrast between Mr. Longfellow's lines,—

"For flames between the sepulchres were scattered,
By which they so intensely heated were,
That iron more so asks not any art,"—

and those of Dr. Parsons,—

"For here mid sepulchres were sprinkled fires,
Wherewith the enkindled tombs all-burning gleamed;
Metal more fiercely hot no art requires." 40

Does it not seem that in all these cases Mr. Longfellow, and to a slightly
less extent Mr. Cary, by their strict adherence to the letter, transgress the
ordinary rules of English construction; and that Dr. Parsons, by his
comparative freedom of movement, produces better poetry as well as better
English? In the last example especially, Mr. Longfellow's inversions are so
violent that to a reader ignorant of the original Italian, his sentence might be
hardly intelligible. In Italian such inversions are permissible; in English
they are not; and Mr. Longfellow, by transplanting them into English,
sacrifices the spirit to the letter, and creates an obscurity in the translation
where all is lucidity in the original. Does not this show that the theory of
absolute literality, in the case of two languages so widely different as
English and Italian, is not the true one?
Secondly, Mr. Longfellow's theory of translation leads him in most cases
to choose words of Romanic origin in preference to those of Saxon descent,
and in many cases to choose an unfamiliar instead of a familiar Romanic
word, because the former happens to be etymologically identical with the
word in the original. Let me cite as an example the opening of Canto III.:—

"Per me si va nella eitti dolente,
Per me si va nell' eterno dolore,
Per me si va tra la perduta gente."

Here are three lines which, in their matchless simplicity and grandeur,
might well excite despair in the breast of any translator. Let us contrast Mr.
Longfellow's version.—

"Through me the way is to the city dolent;
Through me the way is to eternal dole;
Through me the way among the people lost,"—

with that of Dr. Parsons,—,

"Through me you reach the city of despair;
Through me eternal wretchedness ye find;
Through me among perdition's race ye fare."

I do not think any one will deny that Dr. Parsons's version, while far
more remote than Mr. Longfellow's from the diction of the original, is
somewhat nearer its spirit. It remains to seek the explanation of this
phenomenon. It remains to be seen why words the exact counterpart of
Dante's are unfit to call up in our minds the feelings which Dante's own
words call up in the mind of an Italian. And this inquiry leads to some
general considerations respecting the relation of English to other European
languages.
Every one is aware that French poetry, as compared with German poetry,
seems to the English reader very tame and insipid; but the cause of this fact
is by no means so apparent as the fact itself. That the poetry of Germany is
actually and intrinsically superior to that of France, may readily be
admitted; but this is not enough to account for all the circumstances of the
case. It does not explain why some of the very passages in Corneille and
Racine, which to us appear dull and prosaic, are to the Frenchman's
apprehension instinct with poetic fervour. It does not explain the undoubted
fact that we, who speak English, are prone to underrate French poetry, while
we are equally disposed to render to German poetry even more than its due
share of merit. The reason is to be sought in the verbal associations
established in our minds by the peculiar composition of the English
language. Our vocabulary is chiefly made up on the one hand of indigenous
Saxon words, and on the other hand of words derived from Latin or French.
It is mostly words of the first class that we learn in childhood, and that are
associated with our homeliest and deepest emotions; while words of the
second class—usually acquired somewhat later in life and employed in
sedate abstract discourse—have an intellectual rather than an emotional
function to fulfil. Their original significations, the physical metaphors
involved in them, which are perhaps still somewhat apparent to the
Frenchman, are to us wholly non-existent. Nothing but the derivative or

metaphysical signification remains. No physical image of a man stepping
over a boundary is presented to our minds by the word transgress, nor in
using the word comprehension do we picture to ourselves any manual act of
grasping. It is to this double structure of the English language that it owes
its superiority over every other tongue, ancient or modern, for philosophical
and scientific purposes. Albeit there are numerous exceptions, it may still be
safely said, in a general way, that we possess and habitually use two kinds
of language,—one that is physical, for our ordinary purposes, and one that
is metaphysical, for purposes of abstract reasoning and discussion. We do
not say like the Germans, that we "begripe" (begreifen) an idea, but we say
that we "conceive" it. We use a word which once had the very same
material meaning as begreifen, but which has in our language utterly lost it.
We are accordingly able to carry on philosophical inquiries by means of
words which are nearly or quite free from those shadows of original
concrete meaning which, in German, too often obscure the acquired abstract
signification. Whoever has dealt in English and German metaphysics will
not fail to recognize the prodigious superiority of English in force and
perspicuity, arising mainly from the causes here stated. But while this
homogeneity of structure in German injures it for philosophical purposes, it
is the very thing which makes it so excellent as an organ for poetical
expression, in the opinion of those who speak English. German being nearly
allied to Anglo-Saxon, not only do its simple words strike us with all the
force of our own homely Saxon terms, but its compounds also, preserving
their physical significations almost unimpaired, call up in our minds
concrete images of the greatest definiteness and liveliness. It is thus that
German seems to us pre-eminently a poetical language, and it is thus that
we are naturally inclined to overrate rather than to depreciate the poetry that
is written in it.
With regard to French, the case is just the reverse. The Frenchman has no
Saxon words, but he has, on the other hand, an indigenous stock of Latin
words, which he learns in early childhood, which give outlet to his most
intimate feelings, and which retain to some extent their primitive concrete
picturesqueness. They are to him just as good as our Saxon words are to us.
Though cold and merely intellectual to us, they are to him warm with
emotion; and this is one reason why we cannot do justice to his poetry, or
appreciate it as he appreciates it. To make this perfectly clear, let us take
two or three lines from Shakespeare:—

"Blow, blow, thou winter wind!
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude,
Thy tooth is not so keen," etc., etc.;

which I have somewhere seen thus rendered into French:

"Souffle, souffle, vent d'hiver!
Tu n'es pas si cruel
Que l'ingratitude de l'homme.
Ta dent n'est pas si penetrante," etc., etc.

Why are we inclined to laugh as we read this? Because it excites in us an
undercurrent of consciousness which, if put into words, might run
something like this:—

"Insufflate, insufflate, wind hibernal!
Thou art not so cruel
As human ingratitude.
Thy dentition is not so penetrating," etc., etc.

No such effect would be produced upon a Frenchman. The translation
would strike him as excellent, which it really is. The last line in particular
would seem poetical to us, did we not happen to have in our language
words closely akin to dent and penetrante, and familiarly employed in
senses that are not poetical.
Applying these considerations to Mr. Longfellow's choice of words in his
translation of Dante, we see at once the unsoundness of the principle that
Italian words should be rendered by their Romanic equivalents in English.
Words that are etymologically identical with those in the original are often,
for that very reason, the worst words that could be used. They are harsh and
foreign to the English ear, however homelike and musical they may be to
the ear of an Italian. Their connotations are unlike in the two languages; and
the translation which is made literally exact by using them is at the same
time made actually inaccurate, or at least inadequate. Dole and dolent are
doubtless the exact counterparts of dolore and dolente, so far as mere
etymology can go. But when we consider the effect that is to be produced
upon the mind of the reader, wretchedness and despairing are fat better
equivalents. The former may compel our intellectual assent, but the latter
awaken our emotional sympathy.
Doubtless by long familiarity with the Romanic languages, the scholar
becomes to a great degree emancipated from the conditions imposed upon

him by the peculiar composition of his native English. The concrete
significance of the Romanic words becomes apparent to him, and they
acquire energy and vitality. The expression dolent may thus satisfy the
student familiar with Italian, because it calls up in his mind, through the
medium of its equivalent dolente, the same associations which the latter
calls up in the mind of the Italian himself. 41 But this power of appreciating
thoroughly the beauties of a foreign tongue is in the last degree an acquired
taste,—as much so as the taste for olives and kirschenwasser to the carnal
palate. It is only by long and profound study that we can thus temporarily
vest ourselves, so to speak, with a French or Italian consciousness in
exchange for our English one. The literary epicure may keenly relish such
epithets as dolent; but the common English reader, who loves plain fare, can
hardly fail to be startled by it. To him it savours of the grotesque; and if
there is any one thing especially to be avoided in the interpretation of
Dante, it is grotesqueness.
Those who have read over Dante without reading into him, and those
who have derived their impressions of his poem from M. Dore's memorable
illustrations, will here probably demur. What! Dante not grotesque! That
tunnel-shaped structure of the infernal pit; Minos passing sentence on the
damned by coiling his tail; Charon beating the lagging shades with his oar;
Antaios picking up the poets with his fingers and lowering them in the
hollow of his hand into the Ninth Circle; Satan crunching in his monstrous
jaws the arch-traitors, Judas, Brutus and Cassius; Ugolino appeasing his
famine upon the tough nape of Ruggieri; Bertrand de Born looking (if I may
be allowed the expression) at his own dissevered head; the robbers
exchanging form with serpents; the whole demoniac troop of Malebolge,—
are not all these things grotesque beyond everything else in poetry? To us,
nurtured in this scientific nineteenth century, they doubtless seem so; and
by Leigh Hunt, who had the eighteenth-century way of appreciating other
ages than his own, they were uniformly treated as such. To us they are at
first sight grotesque, because they are no longer real to us. We have ceased
to believe in such things, and they no longer awaken any feeling akin to
terror. But in the thirteenth century, in the minds of Dante and his readers,
they were living, terrible realities. That Dante believed literally in all this
unearthly world, and described it with such wonderful minuteness because
he believed in it, admits of little doubt. As he walked the streets of Verona
the people whispered, "See, there is the man who has been in hell!" Truly,

he had been in hell, and described it as he had seen it, with the keen eyes of
imagination and faith. With all its weird unearthliness, there is hardly
another book in the whole range of human literature which is marked with
such unswerving veracity as the "Divine Comedy." Nothing is there set
down arbitrarily, out of wanton caprice or for the sake of poetic effect, but
because to Dante's imagination it had so imposingly shown itself that he
could not but describe it as he saw it. In reading his cantos we forget the
poet, and have before us only the veracious traveller in strange realms, from
whom the shrewdest cross-examination can elicit but one consistent
account. To his mind, and to the mediaeval mind generally, this outer
kingdom, with its wards of Despair, Expiation, and Beatitude, was as real as
the Holy Roman Empire itself. Its extraordinary phenomena were not to be
looked on with critical eyes and called grotesque, but were to be seen with
eyes of faith, and to be worshipped, loved, or shuddered at. Rightly viewed,
therefore, the poem of Dante is not grotesque, but unspeakably awful and
solemn; and the statement is justified that all grotesqueness and bizarrerie in
its interpretation is to be sedulously avoided.
Therefore, while acknowledging the accuracy with which Mr.
Longfellow has kept pace with his original through line after line, following
the "footing of its feet," according to the motto quoted on his title-page, I
cannot but think that his accuracy would have been of a somewhat higher
kind if he had now and then allowed himself a little more liberty of choice
between English and Romanic words and idioms.
A few examples will perhaps serve to strengthen as well as to elucidate
still further this position.
"Inferno," Canto III., line 22, according to Longfellow:—

"There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud
Resounded through the air without a star,
Whence I at the beginning wept thereat."

According to Cary:—

"Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans
Resounded through the air pierced by no star,
That e'en I wept at entering."

According to Parsons:—

"Mid sighs, laments, and hollow howls of woe,

Which, loud resounding through the starless air,
Forced tears of pity from mine eyes at first." 42

Canto V., line 84:—

LONGFELLOW.—"Fly through the air by their volition borne."
CARY.—"Cleave the air, wafted by their will along."
PARSONS.—"Sped ever onward by their wish alone." 43

Canto XVII., line 42:—

LONGFELLOW.—"That he concede to us his stalwart shoulders."
CARY—"That to us he may vouchsafe
The aid of his strong shoulders."
PARSONS.—"And ask for us his shoulders' strong support." 44

Canto XVII., line 25:—

LONGFELLOW.—
"His tail was wholly quivering in the void,
Contorting upwards the envenomed fork
That in the guise of scorpion armed its point."
CARY.—
"In the void
Glancing, his tail upturned its venomous fork,
With sting like scorpions armed."

PARSONS.—"In the void chasm his trembling tail he showed,
As up the envenomed, forked point he swung, Which, as in
scorpions, armed its tapering end." 45

Canto V., line 51:—

LONGFELLOW.—"People whom the black air so castigates.
CARY.—"By the black air so scourged." 46

Line 136:—

LONGFELLOW.—"Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating."
CARY.—"My lips all trembling kissed." 47

"Purgatorio," Canto XV., line 139:—

LONGFELLOW.—
"We passed along, athwart the twilight peering
Forward as far as ever eye could stretch
Against the sunbeams serotine and lucent." 48

Mr. Cary's "bright vespertine ray" is only a trifle better; but Mr. Wright's
"splendour of the evening ray" is, in its simplicity, far preferable.
Canto XXXI., line 131:—

LONGFELLOW.—"Did the other three advance Singing to their
angelic saraband."

CARY.—"To their own carol on they came Dancing, in festive ring
angelical "

WRIGHT.—"And songs accompanied their angel dance."

Here Mr. Longfellow has apparently followed the authority of the
Crusca, reading

"Cantando al loro angelico carribo,"

and translating carribo by saraband, a kind of Moorish dance. The best
manuscripts, however, sanction M. Witte's reading:—

"Danzando al loro angelico carribo."

If this be correct, carribo cannot signify "a dance," but rather "the song
which accompanies the dance"; and the true sense of the passage will have
been best rendered by Mr. Cary. 49
Whenever Mr. Longfellow's translation is kept free from oddities of
diction and construction, it is very animated and vigorous. Nothing can be
finer than his rendering of "Purgatorio," Canto VI., lines 97-117:—

"O German Albert! who abandonest
Her that has grown recalcitrant and savage,
And oughtest to bestride her saddle-bow,

May a just judgment from the stars down fall
Upon thy blood, and be it new and open,
That thy successor may have fear thereof:

Because thy father and thyself have suffered,
By greed of those transalpine lands distrained,
The garden of the empire to be waste.

Come and behold Montecchi and Cappelletti,
Monaldi and Filippeschi, careless man!
Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed!

Come, cruel one! come and behold the oppression
Of thy nobility, and cure their wounds,
And thou shalt see how safe [?] is Santafiore.

Come and behold thy Rome that is lamenting,
Widowed, alone, and day and night exclaims
'My Caesar, why hast thou forsaken me?'

Come and behold how loving are the people;

And if for us no pity moveth thee,
Come and be made ashamed of thy renown." 50

So, too, Canto III., lines 79-84:—

"As sheep come issuing forth from out the fold
By ones, and twos, and threes, and the others stand
Timidly holding down their eyes and nostrils,

And what the foremost does the others do
Huddling themselves against her if she stop,
Simple and quiet, and the wherefore know not." 51

Francesca's exclamation to Dante is thus rendered by Mr. Longfellow:—

"And she to me: There is no greater sorrow
Than to be mindful of the happy time
In misery." 52

This is admirable,—full of the true poetic glow, which would have been
utterly quenched if some Romanic equivalent of dolore had been used
instead of our good Saxon sorrow. 53 So, too, the "Paradiso," Canto I., line
100:—

"Whereupon she, after a pitying sigh,
Her eyes directed toward me with that look
A mother casts on a delirious child." 54

"And she to me: The mightiest of all woes
Is in the midst of misery to be cursed
With bliss remembered."

And, finally, the beginning of the eighth canto of the "Purgatorio":—

"'T was now the hour that turneth back desire
In those who sail the sea, and melts the heart,
The day they've said to their sweet friends farewell;
And the new pilgrim penetrates with love,
If he doth hear from far away a bell
That seemeth to deplore the dying day." 55

This passage affords an excellent example of what the method of literal
translation can do at its best. Except in the second line, where "those who
sail the sea" is wisely preferred to any Romanic equivalent of naviganti the
version is utterly literal; as literal as the one the school-boy makes, when he
opens his Virgil at the Fourth Eclogue, and lumberingly reads, "Sicilian
Muses, let us sing things a little greater." But there is nothing clumsy,
nothing which smacks of the recitation-room, in these lines of Mr.
Longfellow. For easy grace and exquisite beauty it would be difficult to

surpass them. They may well bear comparison with the beautiful lines into
which Lord Byron has rendered the same thought:—

"Soft hour which wakes the wish, and melts the heart,
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay.
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah, surely nothing dies but something mourns!" 56

Setting aside the concluding sentimental generalization,—which is much
more Byronic than Dantesque,—one hardly knows which version to call
more truly poetical; but for a faithful rendering of the original conception
one can hardly hesitate to give the palm to Mr. Longfellow.
Thus we see what may be achieved by the most highly gifted of
translators who contents himself with passively reproducing the diction of
his original, who constitutes himself, as it were, a conduit through which
the meaning of the original may flow. Where the differences inherent in the
languages employed do not intervene to alloy the result, the stream of the
original may, as in the verses just cited, come out pure and unweakened.
Too often, however, such is the subtle chemistry of thought, it will come out
diminished in its integrity, or will appear, bereft of its primitive properties
as a mere element in some new combination. Our channel is a trifle too
alkaline perhaps; and that the transferred material may preserve its pleasant
sharpness, we may need to throw in a little extra acid. Too often the mere
differences between English and Italian prevent Dante's expressions from
coming out in Mr. Longfellow's version so pure and unimpaired as in the
instance just cited. But these differences cannot be ignored. They lie deep in
the very structure of human speech, and are narrowly implicated with
equally profound nuances in the composition of human thought. The causes
which make dolente a solemn word to the Italian ear, and dolent a queer
word to the English ear, are causes which have been slowly operating ever
since the Italian and the Teuton parted company on their way from Central
Asia. They have brought about a state of things which no cunning of the
translator can essentially alter, but to the emergencies of which he must
graciously conform his proceedings. Here, then, is the sole point on which
we disagree with Mr. Longfellow, the sole reason we have for thinking that
he has not attained the fullest possible measure of success. Not that he has

made a "realistic" translation,—so far we conceive him to be entirely right;
but that, by dint of pushing sheer literalism beyond its proper limits, he has
too often failed to be truly realistic. Let us here explain what is meant by
realistic translation.
Every thoroughly conceived and adequately executed translation of an
ancient author must be founded upon some conscious theory or some
unconscious instinct of literary criticism. As is the critical spirit of an age,
so among other things will be its translations. Now the critical spirit of
every age previous to our own has been characterized by its inability to
appreciate sympathetically the spirit of past and bygone times. In the
seventeenth century criticism made idols of its ancient models; it
acknowledged no serious imperfections in them; it set them up as exemplars
for the present and all future times to copy. Let the genial Epicurean
henceforth write like Horace, let the epic narrator imitate the supreme
elegance of Virgil,—that was the conspicuous idea, the conspicuous error,
of seventeenth-century criticism. It overlooked the differences between one
age and another. Conversely, when it brought Roman patricians and Greek
oligarchs on to the stage, it made them behave like French courtiers or
Castilian grandees or English peers. When it had to deal with ancient
heroes, it clothed them in the garb and imputed to them the sentiments of
knights-errant. Then came the revolutionary criticism of the eighteenth
century, which assumed that everything old was wrong, while everything
new was right. It recognized crudely the differences between one age and
another, but it had a way of looking down upon all ages except the present.
This intolerance shown toward the past was indeed a measure of the
crudeness with which it was comprehended. Because Mohammed, if he had
done what he did, in France and in the eighteenth century, would have been
called an impostor, Voltaire, the great mouthpiece and representative of this
style of criticism, portrays him as an impostor. Recognition of the fact that
different ages are different, together with inability to perceive that they
ought to be different, that their differences lie in the nature of progress,—
this was the prominent characteristic of eighteenth-century criticism. Of all
the great men of that century, Lessing was perhaps the only one who
outgrew this narrow critical habit.
Now nineteenth-century criticism not only knows that in no preceding
age have men thought and behaved as they now think and behave, but it
also understands that old-fashioned thinking and behaviour was in its way

just as natural and sensible as that which is now new-fashioned. It does not
flippantly sneer at an ancient custom because we no longer cherish it; but
with an enlightened regard for everything human, it inquires into its origin,
traces its effects, and endeavours to explain its decay. It is slow to
characterize Mohammed as an impostor, because it has come to feel that
Arabia in the seventh century is one thing and Europe in the nineteenth
another. It is scrupulous about branding Caesar as an usurper, because it has
discovered that what Mr. Mill calls republican liberty and what Cicero
called republican liberty are widely different notions. It does not tell us to
bow down before Lucretius and Virgil as unapproachable models, while
lamenting our own hopeless inferiority; nor does it tell us to set them down
as half-skilled apprentices, while congratulating ourselves on our own
comfortable superiority; but it tells us to study them as the exponents of an
age forever gone, from which we have still many lessons to learn, though
we no longer think as it thought or feel as it felt. The eighteenth century, as
represented by the characteristic passage from Voltaire, cited by Mr.
Longfellow, failed utterly to understand Dante. To the minds of Voltaire and
his contemporaries the great mediaeval poet was little else than a Titanic
monstrosity,—a maniac, whose ravings found rhythmical expression; his
poem a grotesque medley, wherein a few beautiful verses were buried under
the weight of whole cantos of nonsensical scholastic quibbling. This view,
somewhat softened, we find also in Leigh Hunt, whose whole account of
Dante is an excellent specimen of this sort of criticism. Mr. Hunt's fine
moral nature was shocked and horrified by the terrible punishments
described in the "Inferno." He did not duly consider that in Dante's time
these fearful things were an indispensable part of every man's theory of the
world; and, blinded by his kindly prejudices, he does not seem to have
perceived that Dante, in accepting eternal torments as part and parcel of the
system of nature, was nevertheless, in describing them, inspired with that
ineffable tenderness of pity which, in the episodes of Francesca and of
Brunetto Latini, has melted the hearts of men in past times, and will
continue to do so in times to come. "Infinite pity, yet infinite rigour of law!
It is so Nature is made: it is so Dante discerned that she was made." 57 This
remark of the great seer of our time is what the eighteenth century could in
no wise comprehend. The men of that day failed to appreciate Dante, just as
they were oppressed or disgusted at the sight of Gothic architecture; just as
they pronounced the scholastic philosophy an unmeaning jargon; just as

they considered mediaeval Christianity a gigantic system of charlatanry,
and were wont unreservedly to characterize the Papacy as a blighting
despotism. In our time cultivated men think differently. We have learned
that the interminable hair-splitting of Aquinas and Abelard has added
precision to modern thinking. 58 We do not curse Gregory VII. and Innocent
III. as enemies of the human race, but revere them as benefactors. We can
spare a morsel of hearty admiration for Becket, however strongly we may
sympathize with the stalwart king who did penance for his foul murder; and
we can appreciate Dante's poor opinion of Philip the Fair no less than his
denunciation of Boniface VIII. The contemplation of Gothic architecture, as
we stand entranced in the sublime cathedrals of York or Rouen, awakens in
our breasts a genuine response to the mighty aspirations which thus became
incarnate in enduring stone. And the poem of Dante—which has been well
likened to a great cathedral—we reverently accept, with all its quaint
carvings and hieroglyphic symbols, as the authentic utterance of feelings
which still exist, though they no longer choose the same form of expression.
A century ago, therefore, a translation of Dante such as Mr. Longfellow's
would have been impossible. The criticism of that time was in no mood for
realistic reproductions of the antique. It either superciliously neglected the
antique, or else dressed it up to suit its own notions of propriety. It was not
like a seven-league boot which could fit everybody, but it was like a
Procrustes-bed which everybody must be made to fit. Its great exponent
was not a Sainte-Beuve, but a Boileau. Its typical sample of a reproduction
of the antique was Pope's translation of the Iliad. That book, we presume,
everybody has read; and many of those who have read it know that, though
an excellent and spirited poem, it is no more Homer than the age of Queen
Anne was the age of Peisistratos. Of the translations of Dante made during
this period, the chief was unquestionably Mr. Cary's. 59 For a man born and
brought up in the most unpoetical of centuries, Mr. Cary certainly made a
very good poem, though not so good as Pope's. But it fell far short of being
a reproduction of Dante. The eighteenth-century note rings out loudly on
every page of it. Like much other poetry of the time, it is laboured and
artificial. Its sentences are often involved and occasionally obscure. Take,
for instance, Canto IV. 25-36 of the "Paradiso":
Here Mr. Cary not only fails to catch Dante's grand style; he does not
even write a style at all. It is too constrained and awkward to be dignified,
and dignity is an indispensable element of style. Without dignity we may

write clearly, or nervously, or racily, but we have not attained to a style.
This is the second shortcoming of Mr. Cary's translation. Like Pope's, it
fails to catch the grand style of its original. Unlike Pope's, it frequently fails
to exhibit any style.
It is hardly necessary to spend much time in proving that Mr.
Longfellow's version is far superior to Mr. Cary's. It is usually easy and
flowing, and save in the occasional use of violent inversions, always
dignified. Sometimes, as in the episode of Ugolino, it even rises to
something like the grandeur of the original:

"When he had said this, with his eyes distorted,
The wretched skull resumed he with his teeth,
Which, as a dog's, upon the bone were strong." 60

That is in the grand style, and so is the following, which describes those
sinners locked in the frozen lake below Malebolge:—

"Weeping itself there does not let them weep,
And grief that finds a barrier in the eyes
Turns itself inward to increase the anguish. 61

And the exclamation of one of these poor "wretches of the frozen crust"
is an exclamation that Shakespeare might have written:—

"Lift from mine eyes the rigid veils, that I
May vent the sorrow which impregns my heart." 62

There is nothing in Mr. Cary's translation which can stand a comparison
with that. The eighteenth century could not translate like that. For here at
last we have a real reproduction of the antique. In the Shakespearian ring of
these lines we recognize the authentic rendering of the tones of the only
man since the Christian era who could speak like Shakespeare.
In this way Mr. Longfellow's translation is, to an eminent degree,
realistic. It is a work conceived and executed in entire accordance with the
spirit of our time. Mr. Longfellow has set about making a reconstructive
translation, and he has succeeded in the attempt. In view of what he has
done, no one can ever wish to see the old methods of Pope and Cary again
resorted to. It is only where he fails to be truly realistic that he comes short
of success. And, as already hinted, it is oftenest through sheer excess of
LITERALISM that he ceases to be realistic, and departs from the spirit of

his author instead of coming nearer to it. In the "Paradiso," Canto X. 1-6,
his method leads him into awkwardness:—

"Looking into His Son with all the love
Which each of them eternally breathes forth,
The primal and unutterable Power
Whate'er before the mind or eye revolves
With so much order made, there can be none
Who this beholds without enjoying Him."

This seems clumsy and halting, yet it is an extremely literal paraphrase of
a graceful and flowing original:—

"Guardando nel suo figlio con l' amore
Che l' uno e l' altro eternalmente spire,
Lo primo ed ineffabile Valore,
Quanto per mente o per loco si gira
Con tanto ordine fe', ch' esser non puote
Senza gustar di lui ehi cio rimira "

Now to turn a graceful and flowing sentence into one that is clumsy and
halting is certainly not to reproduce it, no matter how exactly the separate
words are rendered, or how closely the syntactic constructions match each
other. And this consideration seems conclusive as against the adequacy of
the literalist method. That method is inadequate, not because it is too
REALISTIC, but because it runs continual risk of being too
VERBALISTIC. It has recently been applied to the translation of Dante by
Mr. Rossetti, and it has sometimes led him to write curious verses. For
instance, he makes Francesca say to Dante,—

"O gracious and benignant ANIMAL!"

for

"O animal grazioso e benigno!"

Mr. Longfellow's good taste has prevented his doing anything like this,
yet Mr. Rossetti's extravagance is due to an unswerving adherence to the
very rules by which Mr. Longfellow has been guided.
Good taste and poetic genius are, however, better than the best of rules,
and so, after all said and done, we can only conclude that Mr. Longfellow
has given us a great and noble work not likely soon to be equalled. Leopardi
somewhere, in speaking of the early Italian translators of the classics and
their well-earned popularity, says, who knows but Caro will live in men's

remembrance as long as Virgil? "La belie destinee," adds Sainte-Beuve, "de
ne pouvoir plus mourir, sinon avec un immortel!" Apart from Mr.
Longfellow's other titles to undying fame, such a destiny is surely marked
out for him, and throughout the English portions of the world his name will
always be associated with that of the great Florentine.

June, 1867.

XII. PAINE'S "ST. PETER."
For music-lovers in America the great event of the season has been the
performance of Mr. Paine's oratorio, "St. Peter," at Portland, June 3. This
event is important, not only as the first appearance of an American oratorio,
but also as the first direct proof we have had of the existence of creative
musical genius in this country. For Mr. Paine's Mass in D—a work which
was brought out with great success several years ago in Berlin—has, for
some reason or other, never been performed here. And, with the exception
of Mr. Paine, we know of no American hitherto who has shown either the
genius or the culture requisite for writing music in the grand style, although
there is some of the Kapellmeister music, written by our leading organists
and choristers, which deserves honourable mention. Concerning the rank
likely to be assigned by posterity to "St. Peter," it would be foolish now to
speculate; and it would be equally unwise to bring it into direct comparison
with masterpieces like the "Messiah," "Elijah," and "St. Paul," the greatness
of which has been so long acknowledged. Longer familiarity with the work
is needed before such comparisons, always of somewhat doubtful value,
can be profitably undertaken. But it must at least be said, as the net result of
our impressions derived both from previous study of the score and from
hearing, the performance at Portland, that Mr. Paine's oratorio has fairly
earned for itself the right to be judged by the same high standard which we
apply to these noble works of Mendelssohn and Handel.
In our limited space we can give only the briefest description of the
general structure of the work. The founding of Christianity, as illustrated in
four principal scenes of the life of St. Peter, supplies the material for the
dramatic development of the subject. The overture, beginning with an
adagio movement in B-flat minor, gives expression to the vague yearnings
of that time of doubt and hesitancy when the "oracles were dumb," and the
dawning of a new era of stronger and diviner faith was matter of
presentiment rather than of definite hope or expectation. Though the
tonality is at first firmly established, yet as the movement becomes more
agitated, the final tendency of the modulations also becomes uncertain, and
for a few bars it would seem as if the key of F-sharp minor might be the

point of destination. But after a short melody by the wind instruments,
accompanied by a rapid upward movement of strings, the dominant chord
of C major asserts itself, being repeated, with sundry inversions, through a
dozen bars, and leading directly into the triumphant and majestic chorus,
"The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of heaven is at hand." The second
subject, introduced by the word "repent" descending through the interval of
a diminished seventh and contrasted with the florid counterpoint of the
phrase, "and believe the glad tidings of God," is a masterpiece of
contrapuntal writing, and, if performed by a choir of three or four hundred
voices, would produce an overpowering effect. The divine call of Simon
Peter and his brethren is next described in a tenor recitative; and the
acceptance of the glad tidings is expressed in an aria, "The spirit of the Lord
is upon me," which, by an original but appropriate conception, is given to
the soprano voice. In the next number, the disciples are dramatically
represented by twelve basses and tenors, singing in four-part harmony, and
alternating or combining with the full chorus in description of the aims of
the new religion. The poem ends with the choral, "How lovely shines the
Morning Star!" Then follows the sublime scene from Matthew xvi. 14-18,
where Peter declares his master to be "the Christ, the Son of the living
God,"—one of the most impressive scenes, we have always thought, in the
gospel history, and here not inadequately treated. The feeling of mysterious
and awful grandeur awakened by Peter's bold exclamation, "Thou art the
Christ," is powerfully rendered by the entrance of the trombones upon the
inverted subdominant triad of C-sharp minor, and their pause upon the
dominant of the same key. Throughout this scene the characteristic contrast
between the ardent vigour of Peter and the sweet serenity of Jesus is well
delineated in the music. After Peter's stirring aria, "My heart is glad," the
dramatic climax is reached in the C-major chorus, "The Church is built
upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets."
The second scene is carried out to somewhat greater length,
corresponding nearly to the last half of the first part of "Elijah," from the
point where the challenge is given to the prophets of Baal. In the opening
passages of mingled recitative and arioso, Peter is forewarned that he shall
deny his Master, and his half-indignant remonstrance is sustained, with
added emphasis, by the voices of the twelve disciples, pitched a fourth
higher. Then Judas comes, with a great multitude, and Jesus is carried
before the high-priest. The beautiful F-minor chorus, "We hid our faces

from him," furnishes the musical comment upon the statement that "the
disciples all forsook him and fled." We hardly dare to give full expression to
our feelings about this chorus (which during the past month has been
continually singing itself over and over again in our recollection), lest it
should be supposed that our enthusiasm has got the better of our sober
judgment. The second theme, "He was brought as a lamb to the slaughter,
yet he opened not his mouth," is quite Handel-like in the simplicity and
massiveness of its magnificent harmonic progressions. With the scene of the
denial, for which we are thus prepared, the dramatic movement becomes
exceedingly rapid, and the rendering of the events in the high-priest's hall—
Peter's bass recitative alternating its craven protestations with the clamorous
agitato chorus of the servants—is stirring in the extreme. The contralto aria
describing the Lord's turning and looking upon Peter is followed by the
orchestra with a lament in B-flat minor, introducing the bass aria of the
repentant and remorse-stricken disciple, "O God, my God, forsake me not."
As the last strains of the lamentation die away, a choir of angels is heard, of
sopranos and contraltos divided, singing, "Remember from whence thou art
fallen," to an accompaniment of harps. The second theme, "He that
overcometh shall receive a crown of life," is introduced in full chorus, in a
cheering allegro movement, preparing the way for a climax higher than any
yet reached in the course of the work. This climax—delayed for a few
moments by an andante aria for a contralto voice, "The Lord is faithful and
righteous"—at last bursts upon us with a superb crescendo of strings, and
the words, "Awake, thou that sleepest, arise from the dead, and Christ shall
give thee light." This chorus, which for reasons presently to be given was
heard at considerable disadvantage at Portland, contains some of the best
fugue-writing in the work, and is especially rich and powerful in its
instrumentation.
The second part of the oratorio begins with the crucifixion and ascension
of Jesus. Here we must note especially the deeply pathetic opening chorus,
"The Son of Man was delivered into the hands of sinful men," the joyous
allegro, "And on the third day he rose again," the choral, "Jesus, my
Redeemer, lives," and the quartet, "Feed the flock of God," commenting
upon the command of Jesus, "Feed my lambs." This quartet has all the
heavenly sweetness of Handel's "He shall feed his flock," which it suggests
by similarity of subject, though not by similarity of treatment; but in a
certain quality of inwardness, or religious meditativeness, it reminds one

more of Mr. Paine's favourite master, Bach. The choral, like the one in the
first part and the one which follows the scene of Pentecost, is taken from
the Lutheran Choral Book, and arranged with original harmony and
instrumentation, in accordance with the custom of Bach, Mendelssohn, and
other composers, "of introducing into their sacred compositions the old
popular choral melodies which are the peculiar offspring of a religious age."
Thus the noblest choral ever written, the "Sleepers, wake," in "St. Paul,"
was composed in 1604 by Praetorius, the harmonization and
accompaniment only being the work of Mendelssohn.
In "St. Peter," as in "Elijah," the second part, while forming the true
musical climax of the oratorio, admits of a briefer description than the first
part. The wave of emotion answering to the sensuously dramatic element
having partly spent itself, the wave of lyric emotion gathers fresh strength,
and one feels that one has reached the height of spiritual exaltation, while,
nevertheless, there is not so much which one can describe to others who
may not happen to have gone through with the same experience. Something
of the same feeling one gets in studying Dante's "Paradiso," after finishing
the preceding divisions of his poem: there is less which can be pictured to
the eye of sense, or left to be supplied by the concrete imagination.
Nevertheless, in the scene of Pentecost, which follows that of the
Ascension, there is no lack of dramatic vividness. Indeed, there is nothing
in the work more striking than the orchestration of the introductory tenor
recitative, the mysterious chorus, "The voice of the Lord divideth the
flames of fire," or the amazed query which follows, "Behold, are not all
these who speak Galileans? and how is it that we every one hear them in
our own tongue wherein we were born?" We have heard the opinion
expressed that Mr. Paine's oratorio must be lacking in originality, since it
suggests such strong reminiscences of "St. Paul." Now, this suggestion, it
seems to us, is due partly to the similarity of the subjects, independently of
any likeness in the modes of treatment, and partly, perhaps, to the fact that
Mr. Paine, as well as Mendelssohn, has been a devoted student of Bach,
whose characteristics are so strong that they may well have left their mark
upon the works of both composers. But especially it would seem that there
is some real, though very general resemblance between this colloquial
chorus, "Behold," etc., and some choruses in "St. Paul," as, for example
Nos. 29 and 36-38. In the same way the scene in the high-priest's hall might
distantly suggest either of these passages, or others in "Elijah;" These

resemblances, however, are very superficial, pertaining not to the musical
but to the dramatic treatment of situations which are generically similar in
so far, and only in so far, as they represent conversational passages between
an apostle or prophet and an ignorant multitude, whether amazed or hostile,
under the sway of violent excitement. As regards the musical elaboration of
these terse and striking alternations of chorus and recitative, its originality
can be questioned only after we have decided to refer all originality on such
matters to Bach, or, indeed, even behind him, into the Middle Ages.
After the preaching of Peter, and the sweet contralto aria, "As for man,
his days are as grass," the culmination of this scene comes in the D-major
chorus, "This is the witness of God." What follows, beginning with the
choral, "Praise to the Father," is to be regarded as an epilogue or peroration
to the whole work. It is in accordance with a sound tradition that the grand
sacred drama of an oratorio should conclude with a lyric outburst of
thanksgiving, a psalm of praise to the Giver of every good and perfect gift.
Thus, after Peter's labours are ended in the aria, "Now as ye were
redeemed," in which the twelve disciples and the full chorus join, a duet for
tenor and soprano, "Sing unto God," brings us to the grand final chorus in C
major, "Great and marvellous are thy works, Lord God Almighty."
The cadence of this concluding chorus reminds us that one of the
noteworthy points in the oratorio is the character of its cadences. The
cadence prepared by the 6/4 chord, now become so hackneyed from its
perpetual and wearisome repetition in popular church music, seems to be
especially disliked by Mr. Paine, as it occurs but once or twice in the course
of the work. In the great choruses the cadence is usually reached either by a
pedal on the tonic, as in the chorus, "Awake, thou that sleepest," or by a
pedal on the dominant culminating in a chord of the major ninth, as in the
final chorus; or there is a plagal cadence, as in the first chorus of the second
part; or, if the 6/4 chord is introduced, as it is in the chorus, "He that
overcometh," its ordinary effect is covered and obscured by the movement
of the divided sopranos. We do not remember noticing anywhere such a
decided use of the 6/4 chord as is made, for example, by Mendelssohn, in
"Thanks be to God," or in the final chorus of "St. Paul." Perhaps if we were
to confess our lingering fondness for the cadence prepared by the 6/4 chord,
when not too frequently introduced, it might only show that we retain a
liking for New England "psalm-tunes"; but it does seem to us that a sense of
final repose, of entire cessation of movement, is more effectually secured

by this cadence than by any other. Yet while the 6/4 cadence most
completely expresses finality and rest, it would seem that the plagal and
other cadences above enumerated as preferred by Mr. Paine have a certain
sort of superiority by reason of the very incompleteness with which they
express finality. There is no sense of finality whatever about the Phrygian
cadence; it leaves the mind occupied with the feeling of a boundless region
beyond, into which one would fain penetrate; and for this reason it has, in
sacred music, a great value. Something of the same feeling, too, attaches to
those cadences in which an unexpected major third usurps the place of the
minor which the ear was expecting, as in the "Incarnatus" of Mozart's
"Twelfth Mass," or in Bach's sublime "Prelude," Part I., No. 22 of the
"Well-tempered Clavichord." In a less degree, an analogous effect was
produced upon us by the cadence with a pedal on the tonic in the choruses,
"The Church is built," and "Awake, thou that sleepest." On these
considerations it may become intelligible that to some hearers Mr. Paine's
cadences have seemed unsatisfactory, their ears having missed the positive
categorical assertion of finality which the 6/4 cadence alone can give. To go
further into this subject would take us far beyond our limits.
The pleasant little town of Portland has reason to congratulate itself, first,
on being the birthplace of such a composer as Mr. Paine; secondly, on
having been the place where the first great work of America in the domain
of music was brought out; and thirdly, on possessing what is probably the
most thoroughly disciplined choral society in this country. Our New York
friends, after their recent experiences, will perhaps be slow to believe us
when we say that the Portland choir sang this new work even better, in
many respects, than the Handel and Haydn Society sing the old and familiar
"Elijah"; but it is true. In their command of the pianissimo and the gradual
crescendo, and in the precision of their attack, the Portland singers can
easily teach the Handel and Haydn a quarter's lessons. And, besides all this,
they know how to preserve their equanimity under the gravest persecutions
of the orchestra; keeping the even tenour of their way where a less
disciplined choir, incited by the excessive blare of the trombones and the
undue scraping of the second violins, would be likely to lose its presence of
mind and break out into an untimely fortissimo.
No doubt it is easier to achieve perfect chorus-singing with a choir of one
hundred and twenty-five voices than with a choir of six hundred. But this
diminutive size, which was an advantage so far as concerned the technical

excellence of the Portland choir, was decidedly a disadvantage so far as
concerned the proper rendering of the more massive choruses in "St. Peter."
All the greatest choruses—such as Nos. 1, 8, 19, 20, 28, 35, and 39—were
seriously impaired in the rendering by the lack of massiveness in the voices.
For example, the grand chorus, "Awake, thou that sleepest," begins with a
rapid crescendo of strings, introducing the full chorus on the word "Awake,"
upon the dominant triad of D major; and after a couple of beats the voices
are reinforced by the trombones, producing the most tremendous effect
possible in such a crescendo. Unfortunately, however, the brass asserted
itself at this point so much more emphatically than the voices that the effect
was almost to disjoin the latter portion of the chord from its beginning, and
thus to dwarf the utterance of the word "Awake." To us this effect was very
disagreeable; and it was obviously contrary to the effect intended by the
composer. But with a weight of four or five hundred voices, the effect
would be entirely different. Instead of entering upon the scene as intruders,
the mighty trombones would only serve to swell and enrich the ponderous
chord which opens this noble chorus. Given greater weight only, and the
performance of the admirable Portland choir would have left nothing to be
desired.
We cannot speak with so much satisfaction of the performance of the
orchestra. The instrumentation of "St. Peter" is remarkably fine. But this
instrumentation was rather clumsily rendered by the orchestra, whose
doings constituted the least enjoyable part of the performance. There was
too much blare of brass, whine of hautboy, and scraping of strings. But in
condonation of this serious defect, one must admit that the requisite amount
of rehearsal is out of the question when one's choir is in Portland and one's
orchestra in Boston; besides which the parts had been inaccurately copied.
For a moment, at the beginning of the orchestral lament, there was risk of
disaster, the wind instruments failing to come in at the right time, when Mr.
Paine, with fortunate presence of mind, stopped the players, and the
movement was begun over again,—the whole occurring so quickly and
quietly as hardly to attract attention.
In conclusion we would say a few words suggested by a recent critical
notice of Mr. Paine's work in the "Nation." While acknowledging the
importance of the publication of this oratorio, as an event in the art-history
of America, the writer betrays manifest disappointment that this work
should not rather have been a symphony, 63 and thus have belonged to what

he calls the "domain of absolute music." Now with regard to the assumption
that the oratorio is not so high a form of music as the symphony, or, in other
words, that vocal music in general is artistically inferior to instrumental
music, we may observe, first, that Ambros and Dommer—two of the most
profound musical critics now living—do not sustain it. It is Beanquier, we
think, who suggests that instrumental music should rank above vocal,
because it is "pure music," bereft of the fictitious aids of language and of
the emotional associations which are grouped about the peculiar timbre of
the human voice. 64 At first the suggestion seems plausible; but on
analogous grounds we might set the piano above the orchestra, because the
piano gives us pure harmony and counterpoint, without the adventitious aid
of variety in timbre. And it is indeed true that, for some such reason as this,
musicians delight in piano-sonatas, which are above all things tedious and
unintelligible to the mind untrained in music. Nevertheless, in spite of its
great and peculiar prerogatives, it would be absurd to prefer the piano to the
orchestra; and there is a kindred absurdity involved in setting the orchestra
above that mighty union of orchestra, organ, and voices which we get in the
oratorio. When the reason alleged for ranking the symphony above the
oratorio leads us likewise to rank the sonata above the symphony, we seem
to have reached a reductio ad absurdum.
Rightly considered, the question between vocal and instrumental music
amounts to this, What does music express? This is a great psychological
question, and we have not now the space or the leisure requisite for
discussing it, even in the most summary way. We will say, however, that we
do not see how music can in any way express ideas, or anything but moods
or emotional states to which the ideas given in language may add
determination and precision. The pure symphony gives utterance to moods,
and will be a satisfactory work of art or not, according as the composer has
been actuated by a legitimate sequence of emotional states, like Beethoven,
or by a desire to produce novel and startling effects, like Liszt. But the
danger in purely instrumental music is that it may run riot in the extravagant
utterance of emotional states which are not properly concatenated by any
normal sequence of ideas associated with them. This is sometimes
exemplified in the most modern instrumental music.
Now, as in real life our sequent clusters of emotional states are in general
determined by their association with our sequent groups of intellectual
ideas, it would seem that music, regarded as an exponent of psychical life,

reaches its fullest expressiveness when the sequence of the moods which it
incarnates in sound is determined by some sequence of ideas, such as is
furnished by the words of a libretto. Not that the words should have
predominance over the music, or even coequal sway with it, but that they
should serve to give direction to the succession of feelings expressed by the
music. "Lift up your heads" and "Hallelujah" do not owe their glory to the
text, but to that tremendous energy of rhythmic and contrapuntal
progression which the text serves to concentrate and justify. When precision
and definiteness of direction are thus added to the powerful physical means
of expression which we get in the combination of chorus, orchestra, and
organ, we have attained the greatest sureness as well as the greatest wealth
of musical expressiveness. And thus we may see the reasonableness of
Dommer's opinion that in order to restrain instrumental music from ruining
itself by meaningless extravagance, it is desirable that there should be a
renaissance of vocal music, such as it was in the golden age of Palestrina
and Orlando Lasso.
We are not inclined to deny that in structural beauty—in the symmetrical
disposition and elaboration of musical themes—the symphony has the
advantage. The words, which in the oratorio serve to give definite direction
to the currents of emotion, may also sometimes hamper the free
development of the pure musical conception, just as in psychical life the
obtrusive entrance of ideas linked by association may hinder the full
fruition of some emotional state. Nevertheless, in spite of this possible
drawback, it may be doubted if the higher forms of polyphonic composition
fall so very far short of the symphony in capability of giving full
elaboration to the musical idea. The practical testimony of Beethoven, in his
Ninth Symphony, is decidedly adverse to any such supposition.
But to pursue this interesting question would carry us far beyond our
limits. Whatever may be the decision as to the respective claims of vocal
and instrumental music, we have every reason for welcoming the
appearance, in our own country, of an original work in the highest form of
vocal music. It is to be hoped that we shall often have the opportunity to
"hear with our ears" this interesting work; for as a rule great musical
compositions are peculiarly unfortunate among works of art, in being
known at first hand by comparatively few persons. In this way is rendered
possible that pretentious kind of dilettante criticism which is so common in
musical matters, and which is often positively injurious, as substituting a

factitious public opinion for one that is genuine. We hope that the favour
with which the new oratorio has already been received will encourage the
author to pursue the enviable career upon which he has entered. Even
restricting ourselves to vocal music, there is still a broad field left open for
original work. The secular cantata—attempted in recent times by
Schumann, as well as by English composers of smaller calibre—is a very
high form of vocal music; and if founded on an adequate libretto, dealing
with some supremely grand or tragical situation, is capable of being carried
to an unprecedented height of musical elaboration. Here is an opportunity
for original achievement, of which it is to be hoped that some gifted and
well-trained composer, like the author of "St. Peter," may find it worth
while to avail himself.

June, 1873.

XIII. A PHILOSOPHY OF ART. 65
We are glad of a chance to introduce to our readers one of the works of a
great writer. Though not yet 66 widely known in this country, M. Taine has
obtained a very high reputation in Europe. He is still quite a young man, but
is nevertheless the author of nineteen goodly volumes, witty, acute, and
learned; and already he is often ranked with Renan, Littre, and Sainte-
Beuve, the greatest living French writers.
Hippolyte Adolphe Taine was born at Vouziers, among the grand forests
of Ardennes, in 1828, and is therefore about forty years old. His family was
simple in habits and tastes, and entertained a steadfast belief in culture,
along with the possession of a fair amount of it. His grandfather was sub-
prefect at Rocroi, in 1814 and 1815, under the first restoration of the
Bourbons. His father, a lawyer by profession, was the first instructor of his
son, and taught him Latin, and from an uncle, who had been in America, he
learned English, while still a mere child. Having gone to Paris with his
mother in 1842, he began his studies at the College Bourbon and in 1848
was promoted to the ecole Normale. Weiss, About, and Prevost-Paradol
were his contemporaries at this institution. At that time great liberty was
enjoyed in regard to the order and the details of the exercises; so that Taine,
with his surprising rapidity, would do in one week the work laid out for a
month, and would spend the remainder of the time in private reading. In
1851 he left college, and after two or three unsatisfactory attempts at
teaching, in Paris and in the provinces, he settled down at Paris as a private
student. He gave himself the very best elementary preparation which a
literary man can have,—a thorough course in mathematics and the physical
sciences. His studies in anatomy and physiology were especially elaborate
and minute. He attended the School of Medicine as regularly as if he
expected to make his daily bread in the profession. In this way, when at the
age of twenty-five he began to write books, M. Taine was a really educated
man; and his books show it. The day is past when a man could write
securely, with a knowledge of the classics alone. We doubt if a
philosophical critic is perfectly educated for his task, unless he can read, for
instance, Donaldson's "New Cratylus" on the one hand, and Rokitansky's

"Pathological Anatomy" on the other, for the sheer pleasure of the thing. At
any rate, it was an education of this sort which M. Taine, at the outset of his
literary career, had secured. By this solid discipline of mathematics,
chemistry, and medicine, M. Taine became that which above all things he
now is,—a man possessed of a central philosophy, of an exact, categorical,
well-defined system, which accompanies and supports him in his most
distant literary excursions. He does not keep throwing out ideas at random,
like too many literary critics, but attaches all his criticisms to a common
fundamental principle; in short, he is not a dilettante, but a savant.
His treatise on La Fontaine, in 1853, attracted much attention, both the
style and the matter being singularly fresh and original. He has since
republished it, with alterations which serve to show that he can be docile
toward intelligent criticisms. About the same time he prepared for the
French Academy his work upon the historian Livy, which was crowned in
1855. Suffering then from overwork, he was obliged to make a short
journey to the Pyrenees, which he has since described in a charming little
volume, illustrated by Dore.
His subsequent works are a treatise on the French philosophers of the
present century, in which the vapid charlatanism of M. Cousin is
satisfactorily dealt with; a history of English literature in five volumes; a
humorous book on Paris; three volumes upon the general theory of art; and
two volumes of travels in Italy; besides a considerable collection of
historical and critical essays. We think that several of these works would be
interesting to the American public, and might profitably be translated.
Some three or four years ago, M. Taine was appointed Professor in the
ecole des Beaux Arts, and we suppose his journey to Italy must have been
undertaken partly with a view to qualify himself for his new position. He
visited the four cities which may be considered the artistic centres of Italy,
—Rome, Naples, Florence, and Venice,—and a large part of his account of
his journey is taken up with descriptions and criticisms of pictures, statues,
and buildings.
This is a department of criticism which, we may as well frankly
acknowledge, is far better appreciated on the continent of Europe than in
England or America. Over the English race there passed, about two
centuries ago, a deluge of Puritanism, which for a time almost drowned out
its artistic tastes and propensities. The Puritan movement, in proportion to

its success, was nearly as destructive to art in the West, as
Mohammedanism had long before been in the East. In its intense and one-
sided regard for morality, Puritanism not only relegated the love for beauty
to an inferior place, but contemned and spat upon it, as something sinful
and degrading. Hence, the utter architectural impotence which characterizes
the Americans and the modern English; and hence the bewildered ignorant
way in which we ordinarily contemplate pictures and statues. For two
centuries we have been removed from an artistic environment, and
consequently can with difficulty enter into the feelings of those who have
all this time been nurtured in love for art, and belief in art for its own sake.
These peculiarities, as Mr. Mill has ably pointed out, have entered deep into
our ethnic character. Even in pure morals there is a radical difference
between the Englishman and the inhabitant of the continent of Europe. The
Englishman follows virtue from a sense of duty, the Frenchman from an
emotional aspiration toward the beautiful The one admires a noble action
because it is right, the other because it is attractive. And this difference
underlies the moral judgments upon men and events which are to be found
respectively in English and in continental literature. By keeping it
constantly in view, we shall be enabled to understand many things which
might otherwise surprise us in the writings of French authors.
We are now slowly outgrowing the extravagances of Puritanism. It has
given us an earnestness and sobriety of character, to which much of our real
greatness is owing, both here and in the mother country. It has made us
stronger and steadier, but it has at the same time narrowed us in many
respects, and rendered our lives incomplete. This incompleteness, entailed
by Puritanism, we are gradually getting rid of; and we are learning to
admire and respect many things upon which Puritanism set its mark of
contempt. We are beginning, for instance, to recognize the transcendent
merits of that great civilizing agency, the drama; we no longer think it
necessary that our temples for worshipping God should be constructed like
hideous barracks; we are gradually permitting our choirs to discard the
droning and sentimental modern "psalm-tune" for the inspiring harmonies
of Beethoven and Mozart; and we admit the classical picture and the
undraped statue to a high place in our esteem. Yet with all this it will
probably be some time before genuine art ceases to be an exotic among us,
and becomes a plant of unhindered native growth. It will be some time
before we cease to regard pictures and statues as a higher species of

upholstery, and place them in the same category with poems and dramas,
duly reverencing them as authentic revelations of the beauty which is to be
found in nature. It will be some time before we realize that art is a thing to
be studied, as well as literature, and before we can be quite reconciled to the
familiar way in which a Frenchman quotes a picture as we would quote a
poem or novel.
Artistic genius, as M. Taine has shown, is something which will develop
itself only under peculiar social circumstances; and, therefore, if we have
not art, we can perhaps only wait for it, trusting that when the time comes it
will arise among us. But without originating, we may at least intelligently
appreciate. The nature of a work of art, and the mode in which it is
produced, are subjects well worthy of careful study. Architecture and music,
poetry, painting and sculpture, have in times past constituted a vast portion
of human activity; and without knowing something of the philosophy of art,
we need not hope to understand thoroughly the philosophy of history.
In entering upon the study of art in general, one may find many
suggestive hints in the little books of M. Taine, reprinted from the lectures
which he has been delivering at the ecole des Beaux Arts. The first, on the
Philosophy of Art, designated at the head of this paper, is already accessible
to the American reader; and translations of the others are probably soon to
follow. We shall for the present give a mere synopsis of M. Taine's general
views.
And first it must be determined what a work of art is. Leaving for a while
music and architecture out of consideration, it will be admitted that poetry,
painting, and sculpture have one obvious character in common: they are arts
of IMITATION. This, says Taine, appears at first sight to be their essential
character. It would appear that their great object is to IMITATE as closely as
possible. It is obvious that a statue is intended to imitate a living man, that a
picture is designed to represent real persons in real attitudes, or the interior
of a house, or a landscape, such as it exists in nature. And it is no less clear
that a novel or drama endeavours to represent with accuracy real characters,
actions, and words, giving as precise and faithful an image of them as
possible. And when the imitation is incomplete, we say to the painter, "Your
people are too largely proportioned, and the colour of your trees is false";
we tell the sculptor that his leg or arm is incorrectly modelled; and we say

to the dramatist, "Never has a man felt or thought as your hero is supposed
to have felt and thought."
This truth, moreover, is seen both in the careers of individual artists, and
in the general history of art. According to Taine, the life of an artist may
generally be divided into two parts. In the first period, that of natural
growth, he studies nature anxiously and minutely, he keeps the objects
themselves before his eyes, and strives to represent them with scrupulous
fidelity. But when the time for mental growth ends, as it does with every
man, and the crystallization of ideas and impressions commences, then the
mind of the artist is no longer so susceptible to new impressions from
without. He begins to nourish himself from his own substance. He abandons
the living model, and with recipes which he has gathered in the course of
his experience, he proceeds to construct a drama or novel, a picture or
statue. Now, the first period, says Taine, is that of genuine art; the second is
that of mannerism. Our author cites the case of Michael Angelo, a man who
was one of the most colossal embodiments of physical and mental energy
that the world has ever seen. In Michael Angelo's case, the period of
growth, of genuine art, may be said to have lasted until after his sixtieth
year. But look, says Taine, at the works which he executed in his old age;
consider the Conversion of St. Paul, and the Last Judgment, painted when
he was nearly seventy. Even those who are not connoisseurs can see that
these frescos are painted by rule, that the artist, having stocked his memory
with a certain set of forms, is making use of them to fill out his tableau; that
he wantonly multiplies queer attitudes and ingenious foreshortenings; that
the lively invention, the grand outburst of feeling, the perfect truth, by
which his earlier works are distinguished, have disappeared; and that, if he
is still superior to all others, he is nevertheless inferior to himself. The
careers of Scott, of Goethe, and of Voltaire will furnish parallel examples.
In every school of art, too, the flourishing period is followed by one of
decline; and in every case the decline is due to a failure to imitate the living
models. In painting, we have the exaggerated foreshorteners and muscle-
makers who copied Michael Angelo; the lovers of theatrical decorations
who succeeded Titian and Giorgione and the degenerate boudoir-painters
who followed Claucle and Poussin. In literature, we have the versifiers,
epigrammatists, and rhetors of the Latin decadence; the sensual and
declamatory dramatists who represent the last stages of old English
comedy; and the makers of sonnets and madrigals, or conceited euphemists

of the Gongora school, in the decline of Italian and Spanish poetry. Briefly
it may be said, that the masters copy nature and the pupils copy the masters.
In this way are explained the constantly recurring phenomena of decline in
art, and thus, also, it is seen that art is perfect in proportion as it
successfully imitates nature.
But we are not to conclude that absolute imitation is the sole and entire
object of art. Were this the case, the finest works would be those which
most minutely correspond to their external prototypes. In sculpture, a mould
taken from the living features is that which gives the most faithful
representation of the model; but a well-moulded bust is far from being
equal to a good statue. Photography is in many respects more accurate than
painting; but no one would rank a photograph, however exquisitely
executed, with an original picture. And finally, if exact imitation were the
supreme object of art, the best tragedy, the best comedy, and the best drama
would be a stenographic report of the proceedings in a court of justice, in a
family gathering, in a popular meeting, in the Rump Congress. Even the
works of artists are not rated in proportion to their minute exactness.
Neither in painting nor in any other art do we give the precedence to that
which deceives the eye simply. Every one remembers how Zeuxis was said
to have painted grapes so faithfully that the birds came and pecked at them;
and how, Parrhasios, his rival, surpassed even this feat by painting a curtain
so natural in its appearance that Zeuxis asked him to pull it aside and show
the picture behind it. All this is not art, but mere knack and trickery. Perhaps
no painter was ever so minute as Denner. It used to take him four years to
make one portrait. He would omit nothing,—neither the bluish lines made
by the veins under the skin, nor the little black points scattered over the
nose, nor the bright spots in the eye where neighbouring objects are
reflected; the head seems to start out from the canvas, it is so like flesh and
blood. Yet who cares for Denner's portraits? And who would not give ten
times as much for one which Van Dyck or Tintoretto might have painted in
a few hours? So in the churches of Naples and Spain we find statues
coloured and draped, saints clothed in real coats, with their skin yellow and
bloodless, their hands bleeding, and their feet bruised; and beside them
Madonnas in royal habiliments, in gala dresses of lustrous silk, adorned
with diadems, precious necklaces, bright ribbons, and elegant laces, with
their cheeks rosy, their eyes brilliant, their eyelashes sweeping. And by this
excess of literal imitation, there is awakened a feeling, not of pleasure, but

always of repugnance, often of disgust, and sometimes of horror So in
literature, the ancient Greek theatre, and the best Spanish and English
dramatists, alter on purpose the natural current of human speech, and make
their characters talk under all the restraints of rhyme and rhythm. But we
pronounce this departure from literal truth a merit and not a defect. We
consider Goethe's second "Iphigenie," written in verse, far preferable to the
first one written in prose; nay, it is the rhythm or metre itself which
communicates to the work its incomparable beauty. In a review of
Longfellow's "Dante," published last year, we argued this very point in one
of its special applications; the artist must copy his original, but he must not
copy it too literally.
What then must he copy? He must copy, says Taine, the mutual relations
and interdependences of the parts of his model. And more than this, he must
render the essential characteristic of the object—that characteristic upon
which all the minor qualities depend—as salient and conspicuous as
possible. He must put into the background the traits which conceal it, and
bring into the foreground the traits which manifest it. If he is sculpturing a
group like the Laocoon, he must strike upon the supreme moment, that in
which the whole tragedy reveals itself, and he must pass over those
insignificant details of position and movement which serve only to distract
our attention and weaken our emotions by dividing them. If he is writing a
drama, he must not attempt to give us the complete biography of his
character; he must depict only those situations which stand in direct
subordination to the grand climax or denoument. As a final result, therefore.
Taine concludes that a work of art is a concrete representation of the
relations existing between the parts of an object, with the intent to bring the
essential or dominating character thereof into prominence.
We should overrun our limits if we were to follow out the admirable
discussion in which M. Taine extends this definition to architecture and
music. These closely allied arts are distinguished from poetry, painting, and
sculpture, by appealing far less directly to the intelligence, and far more
exclusively to the emotions. Yet these arts likewise aim, by bringing into
prominence certain relations of symmetry in form as perceived by the eye,
or in aerial vibrations as perceived by the ear, to excite in us the states of
feeling with which these species of symmetry are by subtle laws of
association connected. They, too, imitate, not literally, but under the
guidance of a predominating sentiment or emotion, relations which really

exist among the phenomena of nature. And here, too, we estimate
excellence, not in proportion to the direct, but to the indirect imitation. A
Gothic cathedral is not, as has been supposed, directly imitated from the
towering vegetation of Northern forests; but it may well be the expression
of the dim sentiment of an unseen, all-pervading Power, generated by
centuries of primeval life amid such forests. So the sounds which in a
symphony of Beethoven are woven into a web of such amazing complexity
may exist in different combinations in nature; but when a musician steps out
of his way to imitate the crowing of cocks or the roar of the tempest, we
regard his achievement merely as a graceful conceit. Art is, therefore, an
imitation of nature; but it is an intellectual and not a mechanical imitation;
and the performances of the camera and the music-box are not to be classed
with those of the violinist's bow or the sculptor's chisel.
And lastly, in distinguishing art from science, Taine remarks, that in
disengaging from their complexity the causes which are at work in nature,
and the fundamental laws according to which they work, science describes
them in abstract formulas conveyed in technical language. But art reveals
these operative causes and these dominant laws, not in arid definitions,
inaccessible to most people, intelligible only to specially instructed men,
but in a concrete symbol, addressing itself not only to the understanding,
but still more to the sentiments of the ordinary man. Art has, therefore, this
peculiarity, that it is at once elevated and popular, that it manifests that
which is often most recondite, and that it manifests it to all.
Having determined what a work of art is, our author goes on to study the
social conditions under which works of art are produced; and he concludes
that the general character of a work of art is determined by the state of
intellect and morals in the society in which it is executed. There is, in fact, a
sort of moral temperature which acts upon mental development much as
physical temperature acts upon organic development. The condition of
society does not produce the artist's talent; but it assists or checks its efforts
to display itself; it decides whether or not it shall be successful And it exerts
a "natural selection" between different kinds of talents, stimulating some
and starving others. To make this perfectly clear, we will cite at some length
Taine's brilliant illustration.
The case chosen for illustration is a very simple one,—that of a state of
society in which one of the predominant feelings is melancholy. This is not

an arbitrary supposition, for such a time has occurred more than once in
human history; in Asia, in the sixth century before Christ, and especially in
Europe, from the fourth to the tenth centuries of our era. To produce such a
state of feeling, five or six generations of decadence, accompanied with
diminution of population, foreign invasions, famines, pestilences, and
increasing difficulty in procuring the necessaries of life, are amply
sufficient. It then happens that men lose courage and hope, and consider life
an evil. Now, admitting that among the artists who live in such a time, there
are likely to be the same relative numbers of melancholy, joyous, or
indifferent temperaments as at other times, let us see how they will be
affected by reigning circumstances.
Let us first remember, says Taine, that the evils which depress the public
will also depress the artist. His risks are no less than those of less gifted
people. He is liable to suffer from plague or famine, to be ruined by unfair
taxation or conscription, or to see his children massacred and his wife led
into captivity by barbarians. And if these ills do not reach him personally,
he must at least behold those around him affected by them. In this way, if he
is joyous by temperament, he must inevitably become less joyous; if he is
melancholy, he must become more melancholy.
Secondly, having been reared among melancholy contemporaries, his
education will have exerted upon him a corresponding influence. The
prevailing religious doctrine, accommodated to the state of affairs, will tell
him that the earth is a place of exile, life an evil, gayety a snare, and his
most profitable occupation will be to get ready to die. Philosophy,
constructing its system of morals in conformity to the existing phenomena
of decadence, will tell him that he had better never have been born. Daily
conversation will inform him of horrible events, of the devastation of a
province, the sack of a town by the Goths, the oppression of the
neighbouring peasants by the imperial tax-collectors, or the civil war that
has just burst out between half a dozen pretenders to the throne. As he
travels about, he beholds signs of mourning and despair, crowds of beggars,
people dying of hunger, a broken bridge which no one is mending, an
abandoned suburb which is going to ruin, fields choked with weeds, the
blackened walls of burned houses. Such sights and impressions, repeated
from childhood to old age (and we must remember that this has actually
been the state of things in what are now the fairest parts of the globe),

cannot fail to deepen whatever elements of melancholy there may be
already in the artist's disposition.
The operation of all these causes will be enhanced by that very
peculiarity of the artist which constitutes his talent. For, according to the
definitions above given, that which makes him an artist is his capacity for
seizing upon the essential characteristics and the salient traits of
surrounding objects and events. Other men see things in part fragmentarily;
he catches the spirit of the ensemble. And in this way he will very likely
exaggerate in his works the general average of contemporary feeling.
Lastly, our author reminds us that a man who writes or paints does not
remain alone before his easel or his writing-desk. He goes out, looks about
him, receives suggestions from friends, from rivals, from books, and works
of art whenever accessible, and hears the criticisms of the public upon his
own productions and those of his contemporaries. In order to succeed, he
must not only satisfy to some extent the popular taste, but he must feel that
the public is in sympathy with him. If in this period of social decadence and
gloom he endeavours to represent gay, brilliant, or triumphant ideas, he will
find himself left to his own resources; and, as Taine rightly says, the power
of an isolated man is always insignificant. His work will be likely to be
mediocre. If he attempts to write like Rabelais or paint like Rubens, he will
get neither assistance nor sympathy from a public which prefers the pictures
of Rembrandt, the melodies of Chopin, and the poetry of Heine.
Having thus explained his position by this extreme instance, signified for
the sake of clearness, Taine goes on to apply such general considerations to
four historic epochs, taken in all their complexity. He discusses the aspect
presented by art in ancient Greece, in the feudal and Catholic Middle Ages,
in the centralized monarchies of the seventeenth century, and in the
scientific, industrial democracy in which we now live. Out of these we shall
select, as perhaps the simplest, the case of ancient Greece, still following
our author closely, though necessarily omitting many interesting details.
The ancient Greeks, observes Taine, understood life in a new and original
manner. Their energies were neither absorbed by a great religious
conception, as in the case of the Hindus and Egyptians, nor by a vast social
organization, as in the case of the Assyrians and Persians, nor by a purely
industrial and commercial regime, as in the case of the Phoenicians and
Carthaginians. Instead of a theocracy or a rigid system of castes, instead of

a monarchy with a hierarchy of civil officials, the men of this race invented
a peculiar institution, the City, each city giving rise to others like itself, and
from colony to colony reproducing itself indefinitely. A single Greek city,
for instance, Miletos, produced three hundred other cities, colonizing with
them the entire coast of the Black Sea. Each city was substantially self-
ruling; and the idea of a coalescence of several cities into a nation was one
which the Greek mind rarely conceived, and never was able to put into
operation.
In these cities, labour was for the most part carried on by slaves. In
Athens there were four or five for each citizen, and in places like Korinth
and Aigina the slave population is said to have numbered four or five
hundred thousand. Besides, the Greek citizen had little need of personal
service. He lived out of doors, and, like most Southern people, was
comparatively abstemious in his habits. His dinners were slight, his clothing
was simple, his house was scantily furnished, being intended chiefly for a
den to sleep in.
Serving neither king nor priest, the citizen was free and sovereign in his
own city. He elected his own magistrates, and might himself serve as city-
ruler, as juror, or as judge. Representation was unknown. Legislation was
carried on by all the citizens assembled in mass. Therefore politics and war
were the sole or chief employments of the citizen. War, indeed, came in for
no slight share of his attention. For society was not so well protected as in
these modern days. Most of these Greek cities, scattered over the coasts of
the Aigeian, the Black Sea, and the Mediterranean, were surrounded by
tribes of barbarians, Scythians, Gauls Spaniards, and Africans. The citizen
must therefore keep on his guard, like the Englishman of to-day in New
Zealand, or like the inhabitant of a Massachusetts town in the seventeenth
century. Otherwise Gauls Samnites, or Bithynians, as savage as North
American Indians, would be sure to encamp upon the blackened ruins of his
town. Moreover, the Greek cities had their quarrels with each other, and
their laws of war were very barbarous. A conquered city was liable to be
razed to the ground, its male inhabitants put to the sword, its women sold as
slaves. Under such circumstances, according to Taine's happy expression, a
citizen must be a politician and warrior, on pain of death. And not only fear,
but ambition also tended to make him so. For each city strove to subject or
to humiliate its neighbours, to acquire tribute, or to exact homage from its
rivals. Thus the citizen passed his life in the public square, discussing

alliances, treaties, and constitutions, hearing speeches, or speaking himself,
and finally going aboard of his ship to fight his neighbour Greeks, or to sail
against Egypt or Persia.
War (and politics as subsidiary to it) was then the chief pursuit of life.
But as there was no organized industry, so there were no machines of
warfare. All fighting was done hand to hand. Therefore, the great thing in
preparing for war was not to transform the soldiers into precisely-acting
automata, as in a modern army, but to make each separate soldier as
vigorous and active as possible. The leading object of Greek education was
to make men physically perfect. In this respect, Sparta may be taken as the
typical Greek community, for nowhere else was physical development so
entirely made the great end of social life. In these matters Sparta was
always regarded by the other cities as taking the lead,—as having attained
the ideal after which all alike were striving. Now Sparta, situated in the
midst of a numerous conquered population of Messenians and Helots, was
partly a great gymnasium and partly a perpetual camp. Her citizens were
always in training. The entire social constitution of Sparta was shaped with
a view to the breeding and bringing up of a strong and beautiful race.
Feeble or ill-formed infants were put to death. The age at which citizens
might marry was prescribed by law; and the State paired off men and
women as the modern breeder pairs off horses, with a sole view to the
excellence of the off-spring. A wife was not a helpmate, but a bearer of
athletes. Women boxed, wrestled, and raced; a circumstance referred to in
the following passage of Aristophanes, as rendered by Mr. Felton:—

LYSISTRATA.

Hail! Lampito, dearest of Lakonian women.
How shines thy beauty, O my sweetest friend!
How fair thy colour, full of life thy frame!
Why, thou couldst choke a bull.

LAMPITO.
Yes, by the Twain;
For I do practice the gymnastic art,
And, leaping, strike my backbone with my heels.

LYSISTRATA.
In sooth, thy bust is lovely to behold.

The young men lived together, like soldiers in a camp. They ate out-of-
doors, at a public table. Their fare was as simple as that of a modern
university boat-crew before a race. They slept in the open air, and spent

their waking hours in wrestling, boxing, running races, throwing quoits, and
engaging in mock battles. This was the way in which the Spartans lived;
and though no other city carried this discipline to such an extent, yet in all a
very large portion of the citizen's life was spent in making himself hardy
and robust.
The ideal man, in the eyes of a Greek, was, therefore not the
contemplative or delicately susceptible thinker but the naked athlete, with
firm flesh and swelling muscles. Most of their barbarian neighbours were
ashamed to be seen undressed, but the Greeks seem to have felt little
embarrassment in appearing naked in public. Their gymnastic habits
entirely transformed their sense of shame. Their Olympic and other public
games were a triumphant display of naked physical perfection. Young men
of the noblest families and from the farthest Greek colonies came to them,
and wrestled and ran, undraped, before countless multitudes of admiring
spectators. Note, too, as significant, that the Greek era began with the
Olympic games, and that time was reckoned by the intervals between them;
as well as the fact that the grandest lyric poetry of antiquity was written in
celebration of these gymnastic contests. The victor in the foot-race gave his
name to the current Olympiad; and on reaching home, was received by his
fellow-citizens as if he had been a general returning from a successful
campaign. To be the most beautiful man in Greece was in the eyes of a
Greek the height of human felicity; and with the Greeks, beauty necessarily
included strength. So ardently did this gifted people admire corporeal
perfection that they actually worshipped it. According to Herodotos, a
young Sicilian was deified on account of his beauty, and after his death
altars were raised to him. The vast intellectual power of Plato and Sokrates
did not prevent them from sharing this universal enthusiasm. Poets like
Sophokles, and statesmen like Alexander, thought it not beneath their
dignity to engage publicly in gymnastic sports.
Their conceptions of divinity were framed in accordance with these
general habits. Though sometimes, as in the case of Hephaistos, the
exigencies of the particular myth required the deity to be physically
imperfect, yet ordinarily the Greek god was simply an immortal man,
complete in strength and beauty. The deity was not invested with the human
form as a mere symbol. They could conceive no loftier way of representing
him. The grandest statue, expressing most adequately the calmness of
absolutely unfettered strength, might well, in their eyes, be a veritable

portrait of divinity. To a Greek, beauty of form was a consecrated thing.
More than once a culprit got off with his life because it would have been
thought sacrilegious to put an end to such a symmetrical creature. And for a
similar reason, the Greeks, though perhaps not more humane than the
Europeans of the Middle Ages, rarely allowed the human body to be
mutilated or tortured. The condemned criminal must be marred as little as
possible; and he was, therefore, quietly poisoned, instead of being hung,
beheaded, or broken on the wheel.
Is not the unapproachable excellence of Greek statuary—that art never
since equalled, and most likely, from the absence of the needful social
stimulus, destined never to be equalled—already sufficiently explained?
Consider, says our author, the nature of the Greek sculptor's preparation.
These men have observed the human body naked and in movement, in the
bath and the gymnasium, in sacred dances and public games. They have
noted those forms and attitudes in which are revealed vigour, health, and
activity. And during three or four hundred years they have thus modified,
corrected and developed their notions of corporeal beauty. There is,
therefore, nothing surprising in the fact that Greek sculpture finally arrived
at the ideal model, the perfect type, as it was, of the human body. Our
highest notions of physical beauty, down to the present day, have been
bequeathed to us by the Greeks. The earliest modern sculptors who
abandoned the bony, hideous, starveling figures of the monkish Middle
Ages, learned their first lessons in better things from Greek bas-reliefs. And
if, to-day, forgetting our half-developed bodies, inefficiently nourished,
because of our excessive brain-work, and with their muscles weak and
flabby from want of strenuous exercise, we wish to contemplate the human
form in its grandest perfection, we must go to Hellenic art for our models.
The Greeks were, in the highest sense of the word, an intellectual race;
but they never allowed the mind to tyrannize over the body. Spiritual
perfection, accompanied by corporeal feebleness, was the invention of
asceticism; and the Greeks were never ascetics. Diogenes might scorn
superfluous luxuries, but if he ever rolled and tumbled his tub about as
Rabelais says he did, it is clear that the victory of spirit over body formed
no part of his theory of things. Such an idea would have been
incomprehensible to a Greek in Plato's time. Their consciences were not
over active. They were not burdened with a sense of sinfulness. Their
aspirations were decidedly finite; and they believed in securing the

maximum completeness of this terrestrial life. Consequently they never set
the physical below the intellectual. To return to our author, they never, in
their statues, subordinated symmetry to expression, the body to the head.
They were interested not only in the prominence of the brows, the width of
the forehead, and the curvature of the lips, but quite as much in the
massiveness of the chest, the compactness of the thighs, and the solidity of
the arms and legs. Not only the face, but the whole body, had for them its
physiognomy. They left picturesqueness to the painter, and dramatic fervour
to the poet; and keeping strictly before their eyes the narrow but exalted
problem of representing the beauty of symmetry, they filled their
sanctuaries and public places with those grand motionless people of brass,
gold, ivory, copper, and marble, in whom humanity recognizes its highest
artistic types. Statuary was the central art of Greece. No other art was so
popular, or so completely expressed the national life. The number of statues
was enormous. In later days, when Rome had spoiled the Greek world of its
treasures, the Imperial City possessed a population of statues almost equal
in number to its population of human beings. And at the present day, after
all the destructive accidents of so many intervening centuries, it is estimated
that more than sixty thousand statues have been obtained from Rome and its
suburbs alone.
In citing this admirable exposition as a specimen of M. Taine's method of
dealing with his subject, we have refrained from disturbing the pellucid
current of thought by criticisms of our own. We think the foregoing
explanation correct enough, so far as it goes, though it deals with the merest
rudiments of the subject, and really does nothing toward elucidating the
deeper mysteries of artistic production. For this there is needed a
profounder psychology than M. Taine's. But whether his theory of art be
adequate or not, there can be but one opinion as to the brilliant eloquence
with which it is set forth. June, 1868.

XIV. ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE.
IN a very interesting essay on British and Foreign Characteristics,
published a few years ago, Mr. W. R. Greg quotes the famous letter of the
Turkish cadi to Mr. Layard, with the comment that "it contains the germ and
element of a wisdom to which our busy and bustling existence is a
stranger"; and he uses it as a text for an instructive sermon on the "gospel of
leisure." He urges, with justice, that the too eager and restless modern man,
absorbed in problems of industrial development, may learn a wholesome
lesson from the contemplation of his Oriental brother, who cares not to say,
"Behold, this star spinneth round that star, and this other star with a tail
cometh and goeth in so many years"; who aspires not after a "double
stomach," nor hopes to attain to Paradise by "seeking with his eyes." If any
one may be thought to stand in need of some such lesson, it is the American
of to-day. Just as far as the Turk carries his apathy to excess, does the
American carry to excess his restlessness. But just because the incurious
idleness of the Turk is excessive, so as to be detrimental to completeness of
living, it is unfit to supply us with the hints we need concerning the causes,
character, and effects of our over-activity. A sermon of leisure, if it is to be
of practical use to us, must not be a sermon of laziness. The Oriental state
of mind is incompatible with progressive improvement of any sort,
physical, intellectual, or moral. It is one of the phenomena attendant upon
the arrival of a community at a stationary condition before it has acquired a
complex civilization. And it appears serviceable rather as a background
upon which to exhibit in relief our modern turmoil, than by reason of any
lesson which it is itself likely to convey. Let us in preference study one of
the most eminently progressive of all the communities that have existed.
Let us take an example quite different from any that can be drawn from
Oriental life, but almost equally contrasted with any that can be found
among ourselves; and let us, with the aid of it, examine the respective
effects of leisure and of hurry upon the culture of the community.
What do modern critics mean by the "healthy completeness" of ancient
life, which they are so fond of contrasting with the "heated," "discontented,"
or imperfect and one-sided existence of modern communities? Is this a

mere set of phrases, suited to some imaginary want of the literary critic, but
answering to nothing real? Are they to be summarily disposed of as resting
upon some tacit assumption of that old-grannyism which delights in
asseverating that times are not what they used to be? Is the contrast an
imaginary one, due to the softened, cheerful light with which we are wont
to contemplate classic antiquity through the charmed medium of its
incomparable literature? Or is it a real contrast, worthy of the attention and
analysis of the historical inquirer? The answer to these queries will lead us
far into the discussion of the subject which we have propounded, and we
shall best reach it by considering some aspects of the social condition of
ancient Greece. The lessons to be learned from that wonderful country are
not yet exhausted Each time that we return to that richest of historic mines,
and delve faithfully and carefully, we shall be sure to dig up some jewel
worth carrying away.
And in considering ancient Greece, we shall do well to confine our
attention, for the sake of definiteness of conception, to a single city.
Comparatively homogeneous as Greek civilization was, there was
nevertheless a great deal of difference between the social circumstances of
sundry of its civic communities. What was true of Athens was frequently
not true of Sparta or Thebes, and general assertions about ancient Greece
are often likely to be collect only in a loose and general way. In speaking,
therefore, of Greece, I must be understood in the main as referring to
Athens, the eye and light of Greece, the nucleus and centre of Hellenic
culture.
Let us note first that Athens was a large city surrounded by pleasant
village-suburbs,—the demes of Attika,—very much as Boston is closely
girdled by rural places like Brookline, Jamaica Plain, and the rest, village
after village rather thickly covering a circuit of from ten to twenty miles'
radius. The population of Athens with its suburbs may perhaps have
exceeded half a million; but the number of adult freemen bearing arms did
not exceed twenty-five thousand. 67 For every one of these freemen there
were four or five slaves; not ignorant, degraded labourers, belonging to an
inferior type of humanity, and bearing the marks of a lower caste in their
very personal formation and in the colour of their skin, like our lately-
enslaved negroes; but intelligent, skilled labourers, belonging usually to the
Hellenic, and at any rate to the Aryan race, as fair and perhaps as handsome
as their masters, and not subjected to especial ignominy or hardship. These

slaves, of whom there were at least one hundred thousand adult males,
relieved the twenty-five thousand freemen of nearly all the severe drudgery
of life; and the result was an amount of leisure perhaps never since known
on an equal scale in history.
The relations of master and slave in ancient Athens constituted, of course,
a very different phenomenon from anything which the history of our own
Southern States has to offer us. Our Southern slaveholders lived in an age of
industrial development; they were money-makers: they had their full share
of business in managing the operations for which their labourers supplied
the crude physical force. It was not so in Athens. The era of civilization
founded upon organized industry had not begun; money-making had not
come to be, with the Greeks, the one all-important end of life; and mere
subsistence, which is now difficult, was then easy. The Athenian lived in a
mild, genial, healthy climate, in a country which has always been notable
for the activity and longevity of its inhabitants. He was frugal in his habits,
—a wine-drinker and an eater of meat, but rarely addicted to gluttony or
intemperance. His dress was inexpensive, for the Greek climate made but
little protection necessary, and the gymnastic habits of the Greeks led them
to esteem more highly the beauty of the body than that of its covering. His
house was simple, not being intended for social purposes, while of what we
should call home-life the Greeks had none. The house was a shelter at night,
a place where the frugal meal might be taken, a place where the wife might
stay, and look after the household slaves or attend to the children. And this
brings us to another notable feature of Athenian life. The wife having no
position in society, being nothing, indeed, but a sort of household utensil,
how greatly was life simplified! What a door for expenditure was there, as
yet securely closed, and which no one had thought of opening! No milliner's
or dressmaker's bills, no evening parties, no Protean fashions, no elegant
furniture, no imperious necessity for Kleanthes to outshine Kleon, no
coaches, no Chateau Margaux, no journeys to Arkadia in the summer! In
such a state of society, as one may easily see, the labour of one man would
support half a dozen. It cost the Athenian but a few cents daily to live, and
even these few cents might be earned by his slaves. We need not, therefore,
be surprised to learn that in ancient Athens there were no paupers or
beggars. There might be poverty, but indigence was unknown; and because
of the absence of fashion, style, and display, even poverty entailed no
uncomfortable loss of social position. The Athenians valued wealth highly,

no doubt, as a source of contributions to public festivals and to the
necessities of the state. But as far as the circumstances of daily life go, the
difference between the rich man and the poor man was immeasurably less
than in any modern community, and the incentives to the acquirement of
wealth were, as a consequence, comparatively slight.
I do not mean to say that the Athenians did not engage in business. Their
city was a commercial city, and their ships covered the Mediterranean. They
had agencies and factories at Marseilles, on the remote coasts of Spain, and
along the shores of the Black Sea. They were in many respects the greatest
commercial people of antiquity, and doubtless knew, as well as other
people, the keen delights of acquisition. But my point is, that with them the
acquiring of property had not become the chief or only end of life.
Production was carried on almost entirely by slave-labour; interchange of
commodities was the business of the masters, and commerce was in those
days simple. Banks, insurance companies, brokers' boards,—all these
complex instruments of Mammon were as yet unthought of. There was no
Wall Street in ancient Athens; there were no great failures, no commercial
panics, no over-issues of stock. Commerce, in short, was a quite
subordinate matter, and the art of money-making was in its infancy.
The twenty-five thousand Athenian freemen thus enjoyed, on the whole,
more undisturbed leisure, more freedom from petty harassing cares, than
any other community known to history. Nowhere else can we find, on
careful study, so little of the hurry and anxiety which destroys the even
tenour of modern life,—nowhere else so few of the circumstances which
tend to make men insane, inebriate, or phthisical, or prematurely old.
This being granted, it remains only to state and illustrate the obverse fact.
It is not only true that Athens has produced and educated a relatively larger
number of men of the highest calibre and most complete culture than any
other community of like dimensions which has ever existed; but it is also
true that there has been no other community, of which the members have, as
a general rule, been so highly cultivated, or have attained individually such
completeness of life. In proof of the first assertion it will be enough to
mention such names as those of Solon, Themistokles, Perikles, and
Demosthenes; Isokrates and Lysias; Aristophanes and Menander; Aischylos,
Sophokles, and Euripides; Pheidias and Praxiteles; Sokrates and Plato;
Thukydides and Xenophon: remembering that these men, distinguished for